










































































































Book. 

Gotpght N?_i* 


A 


COPYRIGHT DEPGS 


3 

jsFt. 





























ARAMINTA 


By J. C. SNAITH 


ARAMINTA 
THE VAN ROON 
THE COUNCIL OF SEVEN 
THE ADVENTUROUS LADY 
THE UNDEFEATED 
THE SAILOR 
THE TIME SPIRIT 
THE COMING 
ANNE FEVERSHAM 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
Publishers New York 





ARAMINTA 


BY 


J. C. SNAITH 

J * 

AUTHOR OF “THE VAN ROON,” “THE SAILOR 
“THE UNDEFEATED,” ETC. 



>> 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK : : : : MCMXXIII 


COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 




Copyright, 1908, 1909, by the Forum Publishing Co, 
Copyright, 1909, by Moffat, Yard and Co. 

MINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

SEP -5 ’23 

©C1A711934 

•v.* I 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB 


PAGE 

I. 

The Old Woman of Hill Street . 

1 

II. 

The Idea Which Came to Her . 

7 

III. 

Lord Cheriton Looks In . 

15 

IV. 

Arrival of the First Cause of all 



Romance. 

27 

V. 

The Instinct of Mr. Marchbanks 



Betrays Him . 

35 

VI. 

Unwarrantable Behavior of Tobias 

49 

VII. 

A Throwback. 

60 

VIII. 

“Caroline Crewkerne’s Gainsbor- 



ough” .. 

74, 

IX. 

In Which Cheriton Drops His Um- 



brella . 

82 

X. 

Jim Lascelles Makes His Appear- 

w 


ance.. 

89 

XI. 

Miss Perry is the Soul of Discre- 



tion . . .. 

105 

XII. 

Jim Lascelles Takes a Decisive Step 

114 

XIII. 

High Revel is Held in Hill Street 

122 

XIV. 

Ungentlemanlike Behavior of Jim 



Lascelles . 

V 

130 








VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAG! 


XV. 

Diplomacy is Called For . 

• 

147 

XVI. 

Hyde Park . .. 


153 

XVII. 

Startling Development of the Fe- 



MALE Us . 

• 

163 

XVIII. 

Fashion Comes to the Acacias . 

• 

173 

XIX. 

A Social Triumph. 

• 

183 

XX. 

Miss Perry Has Her Palm Crossed 



With Silver. 


IQI 

XXI. 

High Diplomacy. 


200 

XXII. 

A Conversation at Ward’s . 

• 

210 

XXIII. 

Muffin Makes Her Appearance 

AT 



Pen-y-gros Castle .... 

• 

2l8 

XXIV. 

Episode of a French Novel and 

A 



Red Umbrella. 

• 

228 

XXV. 

Paris on Mount Ida .... 

• 

24I 

XXVI. 

Tim Lascelles Adds Heroism to His 



Other Fine Qualities . 

• 

250 

XXVII. 

Revel is Held at Pen-y-gros Castle 

26l 

XXVIII. 

A Thunderbolt. 


274 

XXIX. 

Jim Lascelles Writes His Name 

IN 



the Visitors’ Book ..... 

• 

282 

XXX. 

C^OOD-BY . 

• 

288 

XXXI. 

DlSfrfc^fGRATION . 


295 

XXXII. 

Barne Moor .. 


303 


XXXIII. Everything for the Best in the Best 
of all Possible Worlds . 


. 310 









ARAMINTA 













ARAMINTA 


CHAPTER I 

THE OLD WOMAN OF HILL STREET 

A N old lady who lived in Hill Street, Mayfair, was 
about to celebrate her seventy-third birthday. 
It was a quarter to nine in the morning by the 
ormolu clock on the chimney piece, and Caroline Crew- 
kerne, somewhat shriveled, very wide-awake, and in the 
absence of her toupee looking remarkably like a macaw, 
was sitting up in bed. Cushions supported her vener¬ 
able form, and an Indian shawl, the gift of her sover¬ 
eign, covered the aged shoulders. 

People there were who did not hesitate to describe her 
as a worldly minded, not to say wicked, old woman. 
There is no need to asperse the character of one who has 
always passed as a Christian; let it suffice that her views 
upon all matters relating to this life were extremely ro¬ 
bust, and that years and experience had confirmed her in 
them. In regard to the life to come she seldom ex¬ 
pressed an opinion. No doubt she was wise. Sitting 
very upright in her bed, with those keen eyes and hawk¬ 
like features mistress of all they surveyed, she was 
enough to put fear in the heart of the boldest. Not that 
courage was the long suit of Miss Burden, a gentle¬ 
woman of a certain age, who sat knitting at the foot of 
the four-poster. She acted as companion in exchange 
for board and lodging and the modest sum of sixty 
pounds a year. 


2 


ARAMINTA 


Duly fortified with a slice of dry toast and a cup of 
strong tea Lady Crewkerne said to her maid, Mottrom, 
who hovered by the dressing table— 

“Please cover my head.” 

The command was obeyed with delicacy and with dex¬ 
terity. Not that the elaborate mechanism which adorned 
the venerable poll fourteen hours out of the twenty-four 
was removed from the center of the dressing table. Va¬ 
rious ceremonies had to be performed before the moment 
came for its reception. The maid produced a temporary, 
but none the less marvelous, erection of fine needlework 
and point lace, which she proceeded to arrange like a 
canopy about the brow of Minerva. 

“Marchbanks may come in,” said the voice from the 
bed. 

The door opened, and that personage was ushered into 
the presence. Marchbanks merits a description quite as 
much as his mistress. Yet how to do justice to him, that 
is the problem. The poise of his bearing, his urbane re¬ 
serve, his patrician demeanor were worthy of an am¬ 
bassador. An air of high diplomacy enveloped his en¬ 
tire being. His most trivial action seemed to raise the 
ghost of Lord John Russell. Like his venerable mis¬ 
tress, he was a Whig to the core. He had been born, 
he had been bred, and by the grace of God he was deter¬ 
mined to die in that tradition. 

In the right hand of Marchbanks was a salver contain¬ 
ing the Morning Post. It also contained a little pile of 
rather important-looking correspondence. 

With the courtly grace of a bygone age the butler 
bowed to the occupant of the four-poster—old ladies who 
live in Hill Street, Berkeley Square, do not put their 
faith in new furniture—and Lady Crewkerne was pleased 
to say— 

“Good morning, Marchbanks.” 


THE OLD WOMAN OF HILL STREET 


3 


“Good morning, my lady.” The manner of March- 
banks was inimitable. And then said he with an air of 
benevolence that would have made a considerable fortune 
in Harley Street: “I trust your ladyship has slept well.” 

“As well as one can expect at my age.” 

No, Marchbanks did not offer his venerable mistress 
many happy returns of her birthday, but had he done 
so it would not have been altogether surprising. For 
he was a man of quite remarkable eminence. He had 
been tipped by the Duke of Wellington. He had pulled 
down the coat collar of Lord Palmerston on more than 
one occasion; while as for Lord Granville, he had known 
him almost as well as he had known his own father. 

“How is Ponto this morning?” inquired the occupant 
of the four-poster. 

“In excellent spirits, my lady.” 

“And his appetite?” 

“He has partaken of a portion of chicken, my lady, 
with excellent relish.” 

“Humph!” was the ungracious rejoinder. “That dog 
eats as much as a Christian.” 

In the opinion of Marchbanks Ponto ate more, but he 
did not say so. He was content merely to bow and with¬ 
draw with simple dignity. Caroline read her letters and 
glanced at the Court Circular, the Parliamentary Report 
and the Money Market. She then announced her inten¬ 
tion of getting up. Over this complex process it is well 
to draw a veil. Enough that an hour and a half later 
she reached her morning room, a veritable dragon in black 
silk leaning on an ebony walking stick. 

The normal state of her temper was severe. “Acidu¬ 
lated to the verge of the morose,” said those who had 
particular cause to respect it. A considerable body they 
were. On this morning of early spring, this seventy- 
third commemoration of the most salient fact of her ex- 


4 


ARAMINTA 


perience, her temper was so formidable that it smote the 
officers of her household with dismay. 

Various causes had contributed to the state of the ba¬ 
rometer. To begin with, that impertinent fellow Cheriton 
had written his usual persiflage upon the subject of her 
birthday. It fell upon the first of April, a stroke of 
irony, in Cheriton’s opinion, for which she had never been 
quite able to forgive her Creator. Then again, if one 
came to think of it, what had existence to offer an old 
woman who had so long outlived her youth, who had 
neither kith nor kin of her own, who bored her friends, 
who made her dependents miserable; who was unable to 
take exercise, who distrusted doctors and despised the 
clergy, a praiser of past times who considered the present 
age all that it ought not to be? 

Why should such a one as Caroline Crewkerne be in a 
good humor on her seventy-third birthday? She was a 
nuisance to everybody, including herself. She was a 
selfish and conceited old woman. Yet even she had her 
points. 

Certainly she was good to her pug. For that repulsive 
and over-fed animal she had a regard which might almost 
be said to amount to affection. But mark the ingratitude 
of the canine race. How did that misshapen, soulless, 
pampered beast whose figurehead was like a gargoyle and 
whose eyes were so swollen with baked meats that they 
could scarcely revolve, requite the constant care of his 
mistress? Why, by getting fat. There could be no 
doubt that Ponto was getting fat. 

Almost the first thing Lady Crewkerne did upon what 
was to prove one of the most memorable days of a long 
and not particularly useful life was to issue an edict. It 
was to the effect that John, the second footman, must 
exercise Ponto for an hour every morning in the park. 
But it was not until about a quarter to two—at least it 


THE OLD WOMAN OF HILL STREET 


5 

was very near luncheon time—that the occurrence hap¬ 
pened from which springs the germ of this history. 

How it came about will never be known. It is a prob¬ 
lem to baffle the most expert psychologists. For at about 
a quarter to two, just as Miss Burden had returned from 
the circulating library, this thing befell. Caroline Crew- 
kerne was visited by an idea. To be sure it did not reveal 
itself immediately in that crude and startling guise. It 
had its processes to go through, like a cosmos or a tadpole, 
or any other natural phenomenon that burgeons into 
entity. The evolutions by which it attained to its full¬ 
ness were in this wise. 

“Where have you been, Miss Burden?” Lady Crew- 
kerne fixed an arctic eye upon the blue-backed volume 
under the arm of the companion. 

“I have been changing a novel at Mudie’s.” 

“The usual rubbish, I suppose.” Caroline gave a grim 
turn to her countenance, which rendered that frontis¬ 
piece an admirable composite of a hawk and a hanging 
judge. 

“Lord Cheriton said it was the best novel he had read 
for years,” said Miss Burden with the gentle air of one 
who reveres authority. 

“Humph! Whatever Cheriton is, he has taste at least. 
Give it to me.” 

Miss Burden handed the blue-backed volume to Lady 
Crewkerne. The old woman opened it warily, lest she 
should come too abruptly upon a fine moral sentiment. 

The next thing Miss Burden realized was that Lady 
Crewkerne was fast asleep. 

When Marchbanks came a few minutes later to 
announce that luncheon was ready his mistress, with the 
blue-backed volume in her lap, was snoring lustily. An 
anxious consultation followed. Her ladyship had not 
missed her luncheon for seventy-three years. 


6 


ARAMINTA 


The far-seeing wisdom of Miss Burden—in a measure 
due no doubt to her pure taste in English fiction—was 
allowed to prevail. The state of Lady Crewkerne’s tem¬ 
per could hardly be worse than it had been that morning. 
If she slept undisturbed it might conceivably be better. 

Miss Burden was justified of her wisdom. Caroline 
missed her luncheon for the first time in seventy-three 
years. Ideas come to us fasting, and there is no other 
explanation to offer why this idea of hers came to be born. 


CHAPTER II 


THE IDEA WHICH CAME TO HER 

I T was a quarter to three when the old woman awoke. 
She was alone save for Ponto, her fidus Achates, 
who was snoring in front of the fire with his tail 
curved up in a most ridiculous manner. And yet she was 
not alone, for there is reason to believe that the idea was 
already in being. For it hardly admits of doubt that it 
had come alive, even before she had time to turn, which 
she did almost immediately, to the cutlet and the mild 
whiskey and soda, which her physician had ordered. 

The idea was not proclaimed forthwith in its meridian 
splendor. At present it was still in embryo. It had to 
undergo gestation in the dim recesses of the mind before 
gathering momentum to issue like a second Minerva from 
the brow of Jove. 

At four o’clock precisely it was Lady Crewkerne’s cus¬ 
tom, light and the British climate permitting, to drive the 
length of Bond Street and once round Hyde Park. 

At that hour, the sky having cleared sufficiently for 
the sun to make a tardy and shamefaced appearance, 
Caroline, accompanied by her faithful gentlewoman and 
her somnolent, four-footed beast, entered the chariot that 
was drawn up before her door. 

It was a remarkable vehicle. Furnished with yellow 
wheels and a curious round body, which according to 
scale was nearly as fat as Ponto’s, it was perched up on 
very high springs, and was in the forefront of the fash¬ 
ion about the year 1841. 

Mr. Bryant and Mr. Gregory, who shared the box-seat, 

7 


8 


ARAMINTA 


would doubtless have been in the forefront of the fash¬ 
ion about the same period. Their broad backs, their 
box-cloth, the shape and texture of their hats and the 
angle at which they wore them, unmistakably belonged to 
a very early period of the world’s history. No, they did 
not wear side-whiskers. Perhaps it was that side-whisk¬ 
ers were either a little in front or a little behind the mode 
in 1841. But it is enough that Messrs. Bryant and Greg¬ 
ory did not wear them. 

The progress along Bond Street was at the rate of four 
miles an hour. The horses, Castor and Pollux by name, 
were somnolent and very fat, the yellow chariot was 
very unwieldy, and in the language of Constable X, who 
touched his helmet at the corner of Hanover Square, “it 
took up a deal o’ room.” None the less, the progress of 
the vehicle was almost royal. 

Caroline sat very upright in the center of the best seat, 
which she had all to herself. With a nose of the Welling¬ 
ton pattern and a chin to match, displayed under a canopy 
of feathers, she looked more like a macaw than ever. 
Miss Burden, in charge of Ponto and a lorgnon with a 
tortoise-shell handle, was seated opposite at a more modest 
elevation. 

Members of the male sex whom this redoubtable veteran 
chanced to meet, having the good fortune to wear their 
clothes with a sufficient air of distinction, received an oc¬ 
casional bow from her; and in return she was the recipient 
of some highly elaborate courtesies. With these she 
ranked as “an amusing old woman.” 

By members of the other sex, who, seated in their ba¬ 
rouches, their victorias, their broughams and their motors, 
regarded her from under their own canopies of feathers, 
she was greeted with a slight inclination of the head and a 
stiffening of eyelid, half fear, half-veiled hostility, and a 
whispered, “There she goes, that dangerous old thing.” 


THE IDEA WHICH CAME TO HER 


9 


No doubt the old woman proceeding along Bond Street 
in her yellow chariot had done a fair amount of mischief 
in her time; and if health and strength continued to be 
vouchsafed her by an All-wise Creator, before she died 
she hoped to do a good deal more. In her own little cor¬ 
ner of her own little world no one was more respected. 
Where she was not respected she was feared, and where 
she was neither respected nor feared she was very heart¬ 
ily disliked. Nobody’s reputation was safe in her keep¬ 
ing. She never said a kind word of anybody; and al¬ 
though she may have done good by stealth, she did it very 
seldom in the light of day. Yet there can be little doubt 
that Ponto loved her in his dumb way and that March- 
banks respected her immensely. 

Proceeding along Bond Street, her idea continued to 
evolve in the purlieus of a hard yet not capacious mind. 
Sitting very upright in the center of her chariot, bleakly 
indifferent to those who did not interest her and coldly 
overlooking those who did, this old woman had come al¬ 
most alongside the shop on the left going towards Picca¬ 
dilly where you can get the nicest top-hat in London, when 
she beheld an apparition. 

It was a Hat. Of gray felt with a dent in the middle 
and rather wide in the brim, it was of the variety which 
is called a Homburg because it is worn at Cannes. Round 
this article of masculine attire, in itself sufficiently bizarre, 
was what is technically known as “a Guards’ ribbon.” 

Now there was only one individual in London who at 
that time (circa 1900) was likely to be taking the air 
of Bond Street in a Homburg hat with a Guards' ribbon 
on April the first. Messrs. Bryant and Gregory knew 
that quite as well as their mistress. Therefore Castor 
and Pollux came to a halt, just as the Hat came to a 
halt also, immediately opposite the coat of arms on the 
panel of the yellow chariot. 


10 


ARAMINTA 


In homage to the Hat of Hats Mr. Bryant and Mr. 
Gregory each touched his own headgear (circa 1841) with 
a deference which if a little exaggerated was no discredit 
to human nature. 

“How d’ye do, George ?” 

Such a form of salutation may mean much or it may 
mean little. As far as Caroline Crewkerne was con¬ 
cerned it implied the former. She only said, “How d’ye 
do?” to the highest branch of the peerage. 

“How d’ye do, George?” said the occupant of the 
yellow chariot. 

“Pooty well for an old ’un,” said the owner of the Hat 
in a gruff, fat voice. 

“How old are you?” 

“Nearly as old as you,” said the Hatted one. Then 
said he with slow and gruff solemnity: “Many happy 
returns of your birthday, Caroline. A great pleasure 
to see you looking so well.” 

“Thank you, George,” said the old woman with for¬ 
midable politeness. “Regular habits and a good con¬ 
science are worth something when you get past seventy.” 

George Betterton, Duke of Brancaster, began to gobble 
like a turkey. He was a heavy-jowled, purple-faced, 
apoplectic-looking individual, rather redundant of form 
and decidedly short in the neck. So famous was he for 
his powers of emulation of the pride of the farmyard, 
that he went by the name of “Gobo” among his intimates. 
As his habits were not so regular and his conscience was 
not so chaste as it might have been, George Betterton 
grew redder in the jowl than ever, and rolled his full- 
blooded eyes at the occupant of the yellow chariot. 

“Nothing been crossing you, Caroline, I hope?” 

“Yes and no, George,” said the occupant of the chariot 
with that bluntness of speech in which none excelled her. 
“Ponto is getting fat and Miss Burden is tiresome, and 


THE IDEA WHICH CAME TO HER n 


Cheriton has been insolent and I am tired of life; but I 
intend to hold on some time yet just to spite people. 
The world is all the better for having an old nuisance or 
two in it.” 

This philanthropic resolution did not seem to arouse as 
much enthusiasm in George Betterton as perhaps it ought 
to have done. All the same, he was very polite in his 
gruff, stolid, John Bull fashion. 

“Glad to hear it, Caroline. We should never get on, 
you know, without you old standards.” 

“Rubbish!” said the old woman robustly. “You’d be 
only too glad of the chance. But that won’t be at 
present, so make your mind easy.” 

Suddenly from under her fierce brows Caroline chal¬ 
lenged him with the eye of a kite. “What are you 
doing in London, George ? She is at Biarritz they 
tell me.” 

George Betterton pondered a moment in order to meas¬ 
ure this old serpent with a full-blooded eye. 

“I’ve come up to judge the dog show,” said he. 

“Oh, is there a dog show?” said Caroline upon a note 
of interest she seldom achieved. “When?” 

“A week a’ Toosday.” 

“If I send Ponto will you guarantee him a prize?” 

“First prize.” 

“Look at him well so that you will know him again. 
Miss Burden, let the Dook look at Ponto.” 

“I’ve seen him so often,” said George Betterton plain¬ 
tively as that overfed quadruped leered at him biliously. 
“He’s a ducky little dog.” 

“Don’t forget that American creature whom Towcaster 
married has the effrontery to have one like him. If you 
confuse him with hers I shall not forgive you.” 

“Better tie a piece of blue ribbon round his tail.” 

His Grace of Brancaster turned upon his heel. 


12 


ARAMINTA 


“Remember my Wednesday/’ the old woman called 
after him in stentorian tones. 

Whether George Betterton heard her or whether he 
did not is difficult to say. It is rather a failing of high 
personages that they are apt to be afflicted with a sudden 
and unaccountable deafness. Caroline’s voice could be 
heard the other side of Bond Street, but her old friend 
gave no sign that it had penetrated to his ears. 

The yellow chariot moved on. Its occupant, looking 
exceedingly grim and rather like a Gorgon born out of 
due time, immediately proceeded to cut dead the inof¬ 
fensive widow of a Baron of the Exchequer who with her 
two pretty daughters was driving to the Grosvenor Gal¬ 
leries. 

If there were those who could be deaf to her, there 
were also those to whom she could be blind. There can 
be no question that during the course of her long life 
she had had things far more her own way than is good 
for any human creature. But some there were who were 
beginning openly to rebel from her despotic sway. 
George Betterton was not the only person of late who 
had been afflicted with deafness. 

All the same, if the look of this old woman meant any¬ 
thing she had to be reckoned with. It had often been 
remarked by those of her friends who followed “the 
fancy” that her face in certain aspects bore a striking 
resemblance to that of an eminent pugilist. A demeanor 
of perfectly ruthless sarcasm and a mouth very hard and 
arbitrary returned to Hill Street at a quarter to five. The 
rebels must be brought to heel. 

The redoubtable Caroline had been home about an 
hour, when without further preliminary her idea sud¬ 
denly entered the region of material fact. She was in 
the middle of a game of piquet, a daily exercise, Sundays 
excepted, in which she showed the greatest proficiency, 


THE IDEA WHICH CAME TO HER 


i3 


and ending as a rule in the almost total annihilation of her 
adversary. Having “rubiconed” her gentlewoman and 
having mulcted her in the sum of two shillings, which 
Miss Burden could ill afford to lose, the idea burst from 
its shell and walked abroad. 

Said Caroline— 

“Do you remember the name of the person that was 
married by my sister Polly?” 

Miss Burden was so much startled by the question that 
she could not answer immediately. Disconcerting as its 
abruptness was, its nature was even more so. For it 
dealt with one outside the pale. 

“Per—Perring—Perkins,” floundered Miss Burden. 
Never, upon any pretext whatever, was that name men¬ 
tioned in Hill Street, Mayfair. 

“Look it up in Walford.” 

Miss Burden consulted that invaluable work of ref¬ 
erence. With some difficulty and many misgivings she 
was able to disinter the following:— 

“Perry, Aloysius, Clerk in Holy Orders, Master of 
Arts. Eldest surviving son of Reverend John Tillotson 
Perry and Maria, 2nd daughter of Montague Hawley, 
Esquire. Born 1842. Married the Lady Mary Augusta, 
younger daughter of Charles William Wargrave, 3rd 
Duke of Dorset, and Caroline, daughter of 5th Marquis 
of Twickenham. Incumbent of Saint Euthanasius, 
Slocum Magna, and Perpetual Curate of Widdiford 
Parish Church. Heir S., Richard Aloysius Wargrave 
Perry, Clerk in Holy Orders, Bachelor of Arts. Ad¬ 
dress: The Vicarage, Slocum Magna, North Devon.” 

When Caroline had duly learned these facts she knitted 
her brows, pondered deeply, and said, “Humph!” A 
look of grim resolution settled upon her countenance. 

“I am going to try an experiment. I shall write to that 
man.” 


14 


ARAMINTA 


In those simple words was embodied the old woman’s 
idea in the fullness of its splendor. For the first time 
in her life she deigned to recognize the existence of the 
Reverend Aloysius Perry. 

Duly dictated to the gentlewoman, the recognition as¬ 
sumed the following shape :— 

“The Countess of Crewkerne presents her compliments 
to Mr. Perry. Lady Crewkerne will be pleased to adopt 
a girl of her late sister’s. Should this course be agree¬ 
able to Mr. Perry, Lady Crewkerne would suggest that 
the best looking and most mannerly of her late sister’s 
children be forwarded to her.” 

“Get my spectacles,” said the old woman. “Let me 
see what you have written.” 

A secret tear veiled the kind eyes of Miss Burden when 
she rose to obey this behest. A long-drawn sigh escaped 
her, the beating of her heart was quickened. The coming 
of a third person would do something at any rate to re¬ 
lieve the intolerable tedium of that establishment. 

Caroline read her letter with patience and with cynicism. 

“It will serve,” said she. “Send it immediately.” 

And then a strange thing happened. The most natural 
and becoming course for Miss Burden to take was to 
ring the bell, in order that this curious document might 
be dispatched by a servant. But she did not do this. In 
her own person Miss Burden quitted the room. Without 
waiting to put on a hat, she passed out at the hall door 
and with her own hand dropped the letter in the pillar 
box at the corner of Berkeley Square. 


CHAPTER III 


LORD CHERITON LOOKS IN 

T HREE days later there was delivered in Hill 
Street a letter bearing a West-country postmark. 
It was written in narrow, upright characters 
which seemed to have a shade of defiance in them. The 
envelope was inscribed with some formality to the Right 
Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne, yet its shape was 
unfashionable, the paper was of inferior quality and was 
innocent of any sort of adornment. 

When this document was delivered by Mr. Marchbanks 
to his august mistress in the sanctity of her four-poster, 
a slight flicker played about the eyelids of that elderly 
diplomatist. It was as if, with the flair that always dis¬ 
tinguished him, he had come to divine that a great event 
was in the air. 

The bearing of his mistress added weight to this theory. 
No sooner did she observe this commonplace missive to 
be nestling among the more ornate communications that 
owed their being, as Mr. Marchbanks knew so well, to 
dukes and marquises and earls and the ladies of dukes 
and marquises and earls, than she swooped down upon it 
with outstretched talon for all the world as some old eagle 
might have done. She read as follows:— 

“The Revd. Aloysius Perry has the honor to present 
his compliments to the Countess of Crewkerne, and begs 
to say in response to her request that he is forwarding 
to-morrow (Tuesday) by passenger train his second 

15 


16 


ARAMINTA 


daughter Araminta, who in his humble judgment is the 
most attractive of those with which it has pleased Prov¬ 
idence to endow him.” 

The old woman, propped up in bed, honored this 
communication with two readings and an ominous brow. 
She was a very sharp-witted old woman, and she could 
not quite make up her mind whether the unconventional 
flavor that clung to the letter of the man who had been 
married by her sister Polly was the fruit of conscious 
irony or of bona-fide rusticity. 

“Humph!”—her invariable exclamation when in 
doubt upon any subject. “An underbred person, I am 
afraid.” 

With a contemptuous gesture she flung the cause of 
her uncertainty across the counterpane to Miss Burden. 

“It is an experiment. A woman of my age has no 
right to add to her responsibilities. However, we shall 
see.” 

“I feel sure she will be a sweet girl,” ventured Miss 
Burden. 

“Pray, why do you think so?” 

“Girlhood is so delightful. All young things are so 
adorable.” 

“You are a fool!” 

The rejoinder was perfectly ruthless. 

Miss Burden blushed faintly, as she always did when 
her birthright was applied to her in scorn. Yet it was 
a trial she had daily to endure. She had been called a 
fool so often that she had come to believe that she was 
one. And that is a faith that renders the human lot very 
hard. 

“A dangerous experiment,” the old woman proceeded. 
“At my age one ought to know better than to try ex¬ 
periments. I hope the creature will be presentable.” 


LORD CHERITON LOOKS IN 


i7 

‘'Surely, dear Lady Crewkerne, a girl of poor dear 
Lady Augusta’s can hardly fail to be that.” 

“The father is quite common, a person of no particular 
family. And girls, unfortunately, take after their fa¬ 
thers.” 

“One feels sure that the husband of dear Lady Augusta 
is a gentleman.” 

“You are a born fool! Ring the bell. It is time I 
had my massage.” 

In the course of the morning Caroline Crewkerne’s 
oldest friend looked in to pass the time of day with her. 
He stayed to luncheon. 

Lord Cheriton was one of those men whose mission in 
life it is to appear on all occasions as one apart from the 
vulgar herd. There can be little doubt that he succeeded 
in this ambition. His style of dress was not to every¬ 
body’s taste, and there were also those who did not care 
greatly for the note of exaggeration in his manner. But 
Caroline Crewkerne’s judgment of her old gossip was the 
correct one. Whatever Cheriton was or whatever he was 
not, emphatically he was not a fool. Had he been in 
anywise oppressed by that not unamiable form of human 
weakness the redoubtable Caroline would have been quick 
to expose it. In a matter of that kind her instinct was 
infallible. They knew each other so well, they had 
crossed swords so often, each derived such a zest from 
the display of the other’s dexterity, that while interpreting 
one another with a frankness that less robust persons 
might have found almost brutal, it had mutual respect 
for a basis. 

Cheriton was an admirer of women. If they were 
pretty his admiration was apt to increase. Indeed, if a 
character of quite singular merit had its weak point it 
was to be found in his attitude towards the more attrac¬ 
tive members of the sex. 


i8 


ARAMINTA 


To woman in the abstract, however, it was his wont 
to be extraordinarily charming and attentive. No one 
could call Miss Burden supremely attractive. She had so 
many things against her, including the immediate loss of 
her place had she developed any special powers of that 
kind. But she had long been Lord Cheriton’s devoted 
slave and sconce bearer. It was merely the result of his 
way with the ladies. Young or old, fair or ugly, it made 
no difference. A deferential air of candid homage, 
touched ever so lightly with sarcasm, was at the service of 
all who bore the name of woman, whether it was Caroline 
Crewkerne herself, her penniless dependent, or the old 
flower seller at the top of the Haymarket. His grace of 
manner, with its slightly ironical bonhomie, was dedicated 
to one and all. 

Miss Burden adored Lord Cheriton. It was, of course, 
a secret passion; but there can be no doubt that had the 
occasion arisen she would gladly have yielded her life for 
this handsome, polite, finely preserved Lothario of five- 
and-sixty. It is not a matter for wonder. Although she 
was a well-read woman with a sure taste of her own, he 
made out her circulating library list; he invariably had 
a bunch of violets to offer her, or any other simple flower 
that was in season; he took a genuine interest in the con¬ 
dition of her health; and there was every reason to be¬ 
lieve that in his inmost heart he shared her intense 
dislike of Ponto, who had very rudimentary ideas in¬ 
deed of the deference due to black and white check 
trousers. 

“Cheriton,” said the hostess, as soon as they were 
seated at luncheon, “are you aware that George Betterton 
is in London ?” 

The pair of old gossips looked one another in the face 
with an air of preternatural innocence. 

“And she at Biarritz/’ said Cheriton in a musical voice. 


LORD CHERITON LOOKS IN 19 

The old woman bent across the table with a sibylline 
gesture. 

“Mark my words/’ said she, “the regime is at an end.” 

“I never prophesy in these cases,” said Cheriton. “She 
is a very able woman, which of course is not surprising, 
and George is the incarnation of sheer stupidity, which is 
not surprising either. All the same, Caroline, I don’t say 
you are not right.” 

“Of course I am right,” said Caroline robustly. “And 
I put it to you, Cheriton, what will be the next move upon 
the tapis?” 

“George will marry,” said Cheriton tentatively. 

His old friend nodded her head in sage approval. 

“Have you selected a duchess for him ?” 

“Why do you ask?” The air of diplomacy amused 
Cheriton because it was so unnecessary. 

“I ask merely for information. If I were a sporting 
tipster, Priscilla L’Estrange would be my selection.” 

“No,” said Caroline Crewkerne with immense decision, 
“a man never marries a woman as stupid as himself. 
Nature’s an old fool, but she knows better than that.” 

Cheriton pondered this philosophical statement with a 
sagacious smile. Caroline’s air, however, was so pon¬ 
tifical that it was not for his sex to dissent from it. 

“Well, there is a great deal of stupidity in the world,” 
said he, “and it seems to be increasing. By the way, was 
George sober?” 

“He was holding himself very erectly and was walking 
very slowly.” 

“Then I’m afraid he wasn’t. But it must be the most 
tedious thing out to spend one’s life in losing one’s money 
at cards and in criticising the Militia.” 

“Yes,” Caroline agreed. “I share your opinion that 
it is time George began to pay attention to more per¬ 
manent things.” 


20 


ARAMINTA 


“The Militia is always with us.” 

“I meant spiritual things, Cheriton,” said Caroline 
Crewkerne, whose day-of-judgment demeanor nearly 
choked his lordship. 

“George Betterton,” said he, “has the spirituality of a 
wheelbarrow. It will give me great pleasure to be present 
when the subject is mentioned.” 

“He is coming to my Wednesday. I may speak to him 
then. That reminds me that Mary Ann Farquhar says 
this new Lancashire bishop eats his cheese in the old- 
fashioned manner, and he is now in London. If I knew 
his address I would send him a card/*’ 

“The Carlton Hotel, I believe, is the headquarters of 
the Church of London.” 

“Miss Burden,” said the old woman austerely, “please 
make a note of that.” 

With an ostentation that Caroline Crewkerne considered 
wholly unnecessary Cheriton inscribed this contribution 
to sociology on the tablets of her companion. “What new 
game is the old heathen going to play, I wonder?” was 
the question that passed through his mind as he did so. 

“Why is Gobo in the parish?” inquired my lord. 
“Worrying the War Office as usual?” 

“No,” said Caroline; “he seemed more serious than 
usual, but that may have been drink. As I am showing 
Ponto at the dog show on Tuesday week, George has 
consented to award the prizes. I have suggested a silver 
collar. I don’t know anything more becoming than a 
silver collar for a dog of Ponto’s type.” 

“I’m afraid it’s a job; and don’t forget, Caroline, the 
last one you perpetrated did no good to the country.” 

“Pray, what do you mean, Cheriton?” said the old 
woman, with her bristles going up like a badger. “Have 
the goodness to explain your meaning.” 

“That boy from Eton—your protege —whom you sent 


LORD CHERITON LOOKS IN 


21 


out to South Africa to command a brigade, made a dooce 
of a hash of it, they tell me.” 

“That is a lie, Cheriton, and you know it.” The old 
woman’s voice quivered so much with passion that it 
frightened Miss Burden considerably. “The dear Dook 
once told me himself that the Battle of Waterloo was won 
on the playing-fields of Eton.” 

“Caroline, it is the taking for gospel the senile speeches 
of an old fogy who lived far longer than any man ought 
to do that has so nearly lost us a continent. The playing- 
fields of Eton, forsooth!” 

“Cheriton,” said his hostess, “I despise you.” 

The light of battle was in her eye. But it is hardly 
correct to speak of their crossing swords. The weapons 
they used were cudgels, in the use of which they were 
singularly adept. 

Miss Burden was more than a little alarmed. But she 
had witnessed so many exhibitions of a similar kind be¬ 
tween these combatants, who fully enjoyed a rough and 
tumble whenever they met, that it is by no means certain 
that the fears of this true-blue Victorian lady were not in 
the nature of a pleasant emotion. 

It was not until they were drinking coffee in the seclu¬ 
sion of the boudoir that peace was restored. Both parties 
to the conflict had appeared to advantage, for their prac¬ 
tice in all kinds of verbal warfare was considerable. 
Cheriton’s phrases, by long association with the great 
world, were as direct as possible. He called a spade a 
spade, but his manner of doing so was extremely charm¬ 
ing. Miss Burden thought his most incisive speeches 
were full of melody. As for Caroline Crewkerne, she 
was the sharpest tongued old woman in London. And 
the least scrupulous, said the very considerable body who 
had been flayed by it. 

Peace restored, Caroline made a suggestion. 


22 


ARAMINTA 


“Cheriton,” said she, “in my humble opinion it is high 
time you settled down. Why don’t you marry?” 

“Cherchez la femme .” 

“If you will place the matter in my hands I shall be 
happy to do what I can for you.” 

“I am overwhelmed.” 

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton,” said Caroline sharply. 
“Let us look at the matter in a practical light. I repeat, 
in my humble opinion you ought to marry.” 

“Pourquoi?” 

“In the first place,” said the old woman ruthlessly, “it 
is no use disguising the fact that young and attractive 
women are inclined to smile at you. Don’t forget that 
you are sixty-five in December.” 

Cheriton writhed a little. The laugh he managed to 
raise sounded pitifully hollow. In the circumstances he 
would have done better to lower his flag. The poor but¬ 
terfly, when the pin is through its middle, only adds to 
its tortures by twisting its body and flapping its wings. 
Caroline Crewkerne smiled grimly. 

“The fact is, my friend,” said she, “you have grown 
already a little passe for the role of Phoebus Apollo. 
The phrase is not mine. It was whispered in my ear by 
an insolent girl who looks upon you in the light of a 
grandfather.” 

With a yellow silk handkerchief Cheriton delicately 
removed a bead of perspiration from his brow. 

“I have heard complaints of your mustache,” Caroline 
went on. “In my humble opinion it requires careful 
treatment. It hardly seems to harmonize at present with 
your general scheme of color. When did you dye it 
last?” 

“The day on which you last dyed your hair. As they 
belong to the same period, I thought it right to—” 

“My hair is dyed weekly,” said Caroline. “But what 


LORD CHERITON LOOKS IN 


2 3 

I want to point out to you is this. In my opinion it is 
high time you were married. You are rich. It is almost 
a national scandal that there is no entertaining at Cheriton 
House; and the title reverts to a branch of the family you 
don’t esteem. Surely there is to be found in the world 
some youngish person of modest attractions—do not de¬ 
lude yourself, Cheriton, that you can ask more—to whom 
you may offer a vocation.” 

“There is a little actress at the Gaiety,” said Cheriton 
thoughtfully. “She seems a healthy creature. I dare 
say she—” 

“Miss Burden, please quit the room,” said Caroline 
sourly. 

Blushing like a peony and trembling like an aspen— 
a double feat of which gentlewomen nurtured in the true 
Victorian tradition were always capable—Miss Burden 
obeyed. 

Cheriton closed the door. 

“Yes, I dare say she would,” said Caroline with her 
hanging-judge demeanor. “All the same, Cheriton, you 
talk like a fool.” 

What Caroline Crewkerne said to Cheriton and what 
Cheriton said to Caroline Crewkerne is not to be disclosed. 
She was a survival of a famous oligarchy which never 
minced its language. She had always been accustomed, 
as had her Georgian forbears, before her, to call a spade 
a spade. It was a mark of caste. And Cheriton, too, 
beneath his superficial airs.and dandified graces, which 
had won for him the title of “the last of the macaronis,” 
had a strain of quite uncompromising frankness. 

Neither of these old and hardened worldlings was at 
all inclined to view the great institution called Woman in 
any sense romantically. Cheriton would have certainly 
rebutted the charge with scorn, but none the less his sense 
of delicacy was only skin deep. A third person over- 


24 


ARAMINTA 


hearing their conversation without being furnished with 
a key must have concluded that it had to do with the 
bringing into the world of a pedigree horse, a prize cow, 
or a speckled rhinoceros. And he must have wondered 
why two persons who had obviously moved in good so¬ 
ciety from their youth up should sit tete-a-tete in a 
beautiful room in one of the most exclusive streets in all 
London discoursing with remarkable gusto upon a subject 
which would have befitted a couple of yokels in a farm¬ 
yard. 

“There’s my niece,” said Caroline Crewkerne. 

“Have you a niece?” said Cheriton. 

“A girl of Polly’s. You remember Polly?” 

“Speaking ex cathedra,” said Cheriton, “and with an 
ample sense of responsibility, I think Polly was the 
plainest woman I ever met.” 

“Odd,” said Caroline, “that I had all the good looks as 
well as all the brains. It made life so difficult for Polly. 
Yet her heart may have been better than mine.” 

“Yes, Caroline, I think so,” Cheriton assented grace¬ 
fully. “But I don’t seem to remember Polly’s marriage.” 

“It was not a marriage.” 

“No?” Cheriton’s sudden access of interest seemed 
open to misinterpretation. 

“Polly married the village curate who hadn’t a shilling.” 

“Poor devil!” 

“To which of the contracting parties do you refer?” 
asked the incisive Caroline. 

“Must have been a poor devil if he hadn’t a shilling.” 

“Of course,” said Caroline, “the family never forgave 
her. Papa forbade her the neighborhood. He might 
have forgiven the village, and he might have forgiven the 
curacy, but he could not forgive the shilling.” 

“Naturally,” said Cheriton. “But I’ve known parsons' 
daughters turn out very well before now. Ive seen one 


LORD CHERITON LOOKS IN 


2 5 

or two who looked capital in the Gaiety chorus. What’s 
the age of the gal?” 

“Nineteen.” 

“An alluring period. Has she a good disposition?” 

“She is my niece,” said Caroline with admirable suc¬ 
cinctness. 

“I shall come and see her. When is she on view?” 

Caroline Crewkerne enfolded herself in her mantle of 
high diplomacy. She paused to measure Cheriton with 
her goshawk’s eye. 

“A month to-morrow.” 

“Capital,” said Cheriton. 

He rose at his leisure. 

“Good-by, Caroline,” said he. “It has been very 
pleasant to find you so much your old self.” 

Caroline gave him a withered talon. 

“Consult a specialist about your mustache.” 

“What, for a parson’s daughter!” 

“A duke’s granddaughter,” said the imperious Caroline. 

“I’m damned if I do!” said Cheriton amiably. 

“You are damned if you don’t,” said Caroline, fixing 
upon him an eye that was positively arctic. “That is, if 
the creature is worth her salt.” 

“Doubtless you are right, Caroline,” said Cheriton with 
the air of a man who made a god of reason. “You have 
a good head. If only your heart—’ l ’ 

With a bow and a smile which had wrought great havoc 
in their time, although not without a certain pathos now, 
Cheriton withdrew. He pointed a course towards a 
famous shop at the corner of Burlington Gardens. 

“It is quite true what they say,” this man of dis¬ 
tinguished appearance and open manners might have been 
heard to mutter to high heaven, as he gazed upwards to 
inquire of Jove whether he intended to ruin his hat. 
“She is the most disagreeable old woman in London.” 


26 


ARAMINTA 


However, there is always the reverse of the medal, the 
other side to the picture. This handsome, courtly, care¬ 
fully-preserved specimen had been mauled rather badly 
no doubt by the old lioness. But had he had eyes in the 
back of his head, or been gifted with some occult faculty, 
he would have found a salve for his wounds. For his 
exit from the house in Hill Street was marked by a 
mildly ascetic form discreetly veiled by the curtains of the 
dining-room windows. Could he have known of the eyes 
that were concentrated upon the back of his gracefully 
erect and faultlessly tailored exterior, could he by some 
subtle process of the mind have ravished the secrets of 
that chaste yet tender bosom, he would have been assured 
that it is not always necessary to invoke the black arts of 
the perruquier to recommend oneself to the mind and 
heart of a Christian gentlewoman. Had Lord Cheriton 
cut off his mustache as a Lenten sacrifice, which was not 
at all likely, as there is reason to fear he did not respect 
the Church sufficiently to contemplate such a course of 
action, within the sanctity of Miss Burden’s heart would 
still have reigned the image of one perfect man, of one 
true prince. 


CHAPTER IV 


ARRIVAL OF THE FIRST CAUSE OF ALL 

ROMANCE 

W RAPPED in her reflections, Miss Burden was 
oblivious of the fact that an old woman lean¬ 
ing upon an ebony stick, and accompanied by 
the roundest of all possible dogs, with the curliest of all 
possible tails, had entered the room. With a somewhat 
cruel abruptness she was made aware of that fact. 

“Don’t be a fool!” said a voice that was full of hard 
sarcasm. “Come away from that window immediately.” 
In dire confusion Miss Burden endeavored to disen¬ 
tangle herself from the folds of the window curtains. 

“That man is as hollow as a drum,” said the old woman 
with a comprehensive wave of her walking stick, “and 
as vain as a peacock. Where is your self-respect, Miss 
Burden? A person of your age, position and appearance 
—it is indecent.” 

Miss Burden was prepared to swoon. A few years 
earlier in the world’s history she might have done so. 
But even the emotional apparatus of a Christian gentle¬ 
woman is susceptible to streams of tendency. Even in 
the year 1900, although within the Victorian epoch, 
swoons were seldom indulged in by people of the highest 
sensibility. Therefore Miss Burden was content to blush 
guiltily, to droop her head, and to hoist in her mild gray 
eyes a hunted look that was really charming. 

“Where is your list for the circulating library?” said 
the old woman sternly. “I must supervise your reading. 

27 


28 


ARAMINTA 


It is exercising a pernicious influence upon your mind 
and character.” 

Miss Burden produced the list from the recesses of a 
small wallet which was suspended from her waist. 

“Precisely as I thought,” said the old woman with a 
snort. “Novels, novels, novels! And by male writers. 
For some time past, Miss Burden, it has been clear to me 
that an evil influence has been at work. The Ordeal of 
Richard Feverel, by George Meredith. Cross it out. 
Substitute Mrs. Turner's Cautionary Stories. The Dolly 
Dialogues, by Anthony Hope. Cross it out. Substitute 
The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. An Old Maid T s 
Love Story, by Anon. Cross it out. Substitute The 
Pleasures of Life, by Lord Avebury. L’Abbe Constan¬ 
tin, by—! Cross it out. Miss Burden, I forbid you 
to read French authors until the end of May.” 

Having issued this Draconian edict, the tyrant left her 
gentlewoman impaled haplessly upon the two-spiked thorn 
of shame and confusion. She proceeded to indulge in 
her daily siesta, which advancing years made more than 
ever necessary if her store of natural energy was to 
remain equal to the demands upon it. 

At four o’clock, as you already know, it was Lady 
Crewkerne’s custom, if the weather was favorable, to 
take the air in her yellow chariot. Upon this momentous 
day, however, the elements were adverse; and at twenty- 
seven minutes past four, by the clock in the blue drawing¬ 
room, she was to be found in that spacious, somber, yet 
magnificent apartment. She was wearing her second best 
turban, a black silk dress and a collar of old lace, secured 
by a brooch which was said to have been given to an 
ancestress by good Queen Elizabeth, who for reasons of 
State afterwards cut off the head of the recipient. En¬ 
throned before a silver teapot and twelve Crown Derby 
teacups, with a monogram upon the bottom, prepared to 



FIRST CAUSE OF ALL ROMANCE 


29 


offer some very weak tea and some stale bread and butter 
to a number of persons who were not in the least likely 
to appear to claim it, she presented as formidable a figure 
as any to be found in London. 

Let stress be laid upon the time—twenty-seven minutes 
past four—since that is the hour at which this story 
really begins. Then it was that a four-wheeled vehicle of 
a rapidly disappearing type drew up before the imposing 
front door of the house in Hill Street. Upon the roof 
of the “growler” was a dilapidated wooden box, in¬ 
securely tied with a cord which had been pieced in three 
places. And seated modestly enough in its interior was 
—well, the First Cause of All Romance. 

There she was. The first thing to be seen in the dim 
recesses of the “growler” was her straw hat. Now there 
is a great deal in a hat. They are full of character— 
straw hats particularly. But this was a preposterous hat 
altogether. In the first place its dimensions were cer¬ 
tainly remarkable; it flopped absurdly; there was a sag 
of the brim which was irresistibly impossible; while as 
for the contour and general condition of the hat, the less 
said upon that subject the better. 

In shape, texture, and design this primitive article was 
more like an inverted vegetable basket than anything else. 
Unmistakably rustic, even in its prime, it was now old, 
discolored and misshapen, and the piece of black ribbon 
that had adorned it in its youth was really not fit for the 
West End of London. Purchased of the general outfitter 
of Slocum Magna for the sum of one-and-elevenpence- 
halfpenny in the spring of 1899, it was as rudimentary a 
form of headgear as was ever devised by the very remote 
district to which it owed its being. It had absolutely no 
business at all in that chaste thoroughfare which for many 
years past has been dedicated to the usage of fashion. 

A lot of time is being taken over the hat. The inverted 


30 


ARAMINTA 


vegetable basket was the first thing to emerge from the 
dim recesses of the “growler.” And then came the tip of 
a chin. It was inclined at a furtive angle of feminine 
curiosity. Although only the extreme tip of it was 
visible, the preposterous headgear which overshadowed it 
really ought not to be mentioned on the same page. For 
there can be no question that the chin was the work of 
a very great Artist indeed. 

The cabman came down very slowly from his perch. 
He was a veteran with an extremely red face and a look 
of knowledge which he had a perfect right to assume. 

“ ’Ere you are, miss,” said he, as he opened the door 
of the “growler” with an air which almost suggested that 
he was the ground landlord of the entire West End of 
London. “You’d like the portmanter down, what?” 

“Oh yes, please, thank you so much,” drawled from 
within a voice that was quite extraordinarily friendly. 

While the cabman with great ceremony and an immense 
display of exertion was lifting the corded box from the 
roof the owner of the inverted vegetable basket emerged 
from the “growler,” marched up the steps of the Right 
Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne’s town residence, 
and rang a loud peal upon the front doorbell. 

The front door was opened immediately by no less a 
person than John, who was rather inclined to expect a 
duchess. John devoted the more serious part of his life 
to the expectation of duchesses. And with his imper¬ 
turbable mien, his rather supercilious eyes, and his superb 
livery, no man on this planet, whatever point they have 
reached in Mars, was better fitted to receive one. 

John was taken aback. By an inexcusable oversight 
Lady Crewkerne’s household had not been informed that 
her ladyship’s niece was expected. No carriage had been 
sent to meet her. The fact was that the old lady expected 
her on the following day. Whether the Reverend Aloy- 


FIRST CAUSE OF ALL ROMANCE 


3i 


sius Perry had expressed himself obscurely, or whether 
Lady Crewkerne and her gentlewoman had read the 
letter carelessly, is a problem not easy to solve. But there 
the matter stood. The visitor from Slocum Magna in 
the middle of Exmoor, North Devon, was not in the least 
expected, and John was taken aback. 

It did not take him long to recover, for his natural self- 
possession was considerable, and he was a man of the 
world. Almost immediately he began to subject the in¬ 
vader to a very severe scrutiny. He began with the 
crown of her hat. To say the least, the beginning was 
unfortunate. From the hat his hostile gaze passed to a 
very rustic-looking cloak which had a hood to it. If 
there was one thing that John despised more than another 
it was a cloak with a hood. 

Then the frock underneath! It was a sort of lilac 
print affair, faded in places and completely outgrown by 
its wearer, who—whisper it not in Bond Street!—stood 
exactly six feet in her stockings. The skirt of this non¬ 
descript garment displayed a great deal more ankle than 
is considered correct in the metropolis. And the boots 
which adorned those ankles gave them a prominence that 
Nature had not intended them to bear. The village cob¬ 
bler at Slocum Magna has always had the reputation of 
a conscientious and painstaking craftsman, but it is doubt¬ 
ful whether he will ever be awarded a diploma for his 
skill in the higher grades of his calling. The ankles of 
the fair visitor were encased in the stoutest, most mis¬ 
shapen pair of laced-up boots John had ever seen in his 
life. 

Moreover, John’s eye lit on a pair of gloves which in 
his opinion were all that a pair of gloves should not be. 
They were made of black cotton and were very freely 
darned; and, as if this were not enough, the glove of the 
dexter hand was clasped round a wicker basket of a 


32 


ARAMINTA 


decidedly rural, not to say common, character. The lid, 
which was secured by a piece of string, had an air of un¬ 
certainty about it. At any moment it threatened to yield 
to the weight it had to bear. And as if all these unlucky 
details did not in themselves suffice, there was a “growler” 
immediately opposite the sacred precincts; while even at 
that moment a red-faced and festive-looking cabman was 
toiling up the steps with a dilapidated wooden box, tied 
by a cord which had been pieced in three places. 

In the circumstances there was only one thing for John 
to do. This John did with energy and conviction. He 
sniffed. 

At almost the same moment a perfectly ludicrous drawl 
assailed his ears. 

“Does Aunt Caroline live here, please?” 

It is not too much to say that John was nonplused by 
the question. 

“This is the residence of the Countess of Crewkerne,” 
he said with hauteur. 

' Unhappily, the effect of this announcement was marred 
by the officious behavior of the cabman. That worthy 
at least felt no embarrassment. With a wheeze and a 
grunt which were wholly unnecessary, because the box 
contained so little, he made his way past its owner with 
ostentatious heaviness, and was about to bring it into 
forcible contact with John’s best livery, when the cus¬ 
todian of the portals realized that it was a time for action. 

“Don’t bring it in,” he said sternly. “Stay where you 
are. I will make inquiries.” 

With a glance, not to the cabman only, but to the 
Wearer of the inverted vegetable basket also, which inti¬ 
mated that they crossed that threshold upon peril of their 
lives, John turned upon his heel. He walked across the 
entrance hall to confer with his chief, who was no less 
a personage than Mr. Marchbanks himself. 


FIRST CAUSE OF ALL ROMANCE 


33 


The conference was grave, but it was brief. Mr. 
Marchbanks came forward in his own inimitable manner, 
only to find that the fair intruder, preposterous hat, 
hooded cloak, cobbled boots, darned gloves and all, had 
had the temerity to enter the house. 

It is not too much to say that Marchbanks frowned 
upon her. Certainly he looked very majestic indeed, and 
throughout the length and breadth of Mayfair it would 
have been hard to find a man more imposing than he. 
His nose was like the Duke of Wellington’s, and his de¬ 
meanor was modeled upon that of that renowned hero 
and patriot. In his cut-away morning coat and spotless 
shirt front and large Gladstone collar—purchased at the 
shop which had had the honor of supplying that distin¬ 
guished statesman—with his black tie and his patrician 
features, he might just as well have been Prime Minister 
of England as merely the butler to old Lady Crewkerne. 

Stress is laid upon these facts, because the behavior of 
the Heroine is almost without parallel. She attempted 
to shake hands with the butler. 

In a measure John was to blame. He approached 
Marchbanks so reverently, he addressed him with such an 
air of deference, that the artless intruder might almost be 
pardoned for jumping to the conclusion that here was a 
marquis uncle whom she had never heard of before. At 
any rate, no sooner had the finely-chiseled profile con¬ 
fronted the creature of the straw hat than she tucked the 
wicker basket firmly under her left arm, thrust out her 
right hand, and beamed upon him. 

Marchbanks showed great coolness and presence of 
mind. He drew himself up to his full height. It was 
a great crisis in his life, yet there was a noble absence of 
confusion. After an instant of silence, in which he suc- 
sessfully sought to recover the grand manner, he held a 
brief private colloquy with his subaltern. Neither of 


34 


ARAMINTA 


these gentlemen had been told that her ladyship expected 
her niece, but Mrs. Plunket, the housekeeper, had in¬ 
formed them that a new housemaid was expected at six 
o’clock. 

That is how the instinct of Marchbanks came to betray 
him. 


CHAPTER V 


THE INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANICS 

BETRAYS HIM 

I N the stateliest fashion Mr. Marchbanks made his 
way to the housekeeper’s room. 

Mrs. Plunket, indisputable sovereign of the nether 
regions, was taking tea. Mr. Marchbanks greeted her 
with an air of private wrong. 

“A young person, ma’am, is arrived,” said he. 

Said Mrs. Plunket— 

“The new under-housemaid is not due until six o’clock. 
She has no right to come before her time.” 

“I am almost afraid,” said Mr. Marchbanks with diplo¬ 
matic reserve, “that this is her first place.” 

“Surely not,” said Mrs. Plunket. “According to her 
references she has been ten months in the service of the 
Duchess Dowager of Blackhampton.” 

“Then I fear,” said Mr. Marchbanks gravely, “that she 
has not profited by her experience.” 

The housekeeper expressed a becoming surprise. 

“She rang the front doorbell.” 

“That is unpardonable. Yet the Duchess Dowager of 
Blackhampton is generally considered very good service.” 

“Things are very unsettled nowadays,” said Mr. 
Marchbanks gloomily. “It almost seems that even good’ 
service is a thing of the past. If we must have Radical 
governments, and higher education of the masses, there’s 
no saying what will happen to the country. She—ah, she 
attempted to shake hands with me!” 

35 


36 


ARAMINTA 


Mrs. Plunket shuddered. 

“Mr. Marchbanks,” said she, “I am afraid she will 
have to be sent away.” 

At heart, however, Mr. Marchbanks was a man of 
liberal views, as became one who had been nurtured in 
Whig traditions. 

“She is young,” he said with a dignified mildness which 
in the circumstances Mrs. Plunket admired extremely. 
“A word in season from the right quarter might bear 
fruit.” 

“She shall have it,” said the housekeeper with a tru¬ 
culent shake of the teapot. 

“Pier style of dress also leaves much to be desired. 
It is distinctly suburban to my mind. But no doubt, Mrs. 
Plunket, you will prefer to judge for yourself.” 

“I will see her. But I feel sure that she will have to be 
sent away. Yet to be an under-housemaid short does 
make life so difficult.” 

“Perhaps she may be molded,” said Mr. Marchbanks 
with the optimism of the true Whig. 

The butler withdrew. At a majestic leisure he climbed 
the dark stairs to the hall. He was greeted immediately 
by a gesture of distress from John. It seemed that those 
sacred precincts were being defiled by an altercation 
between a creature in a primitive straw hat and a 
rustical frock and an elderly cabman who smelt strongly 
of gin. 

The fare had set down her wicker basket on the hall 
parquet, and with some little difficulty had contrived to 
draw half a crown from the inside of her glove. 

The cabman had received this coin dubiously. Aftei 
gazing at it thoughtfully as it lay in his grimy palm, said 
he— 

“What about the box, miss? And a wet arternoon.” 

“Dearest papa said the fare would be half a crown from 


INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS 37 


Paddington Station,” said the inhabitant of the prepos¬ 
terous hat. 

“I know nothing about your pa, miss,” said the cabman 
firmly, “but what I do know is that there box is outside 
luggage. And I got it down meself, and I carried it in 
with my own ’ands, and it’s raining like old boots.” 

“Dearest papa said—” the Straw-hatted One was 
proceeding to explain very slowly and with great patience, 
when in response to John’s silent appeal Mr. Marchbanks 
intervened with quiet authority. 

Very deftly Mr. Marchbanks added sixpence to the 
cabman’s half-crown. “Go away as soon as possible,” 
he said sternly. “We are likely to have callers at any 
moment.” 

In recognition of the fact that he had to do with a 
gentleman the cabman touched his hat and proceeded to 
do as he was told. 

“Do you mind coming this way, miss—ah,” said the 
butler a little haughtily to the lady of the hat. 

“Miss Perry.” The drawl was really ludicrous. 

In extenuation of Marchbanks’ conduct in this amazing 
affair it has to be said that neither his sense of sight nor 
of hearing were quite so good as they had been. Other¬ 
wise that ludicrous drawl must have caused him consider¬ 
able uneasiness. 

Miss Perry tucked the wicker basket under her arm 
and followed the butler with perfect friendliness and 
simplicity. He opened the door of the housekeeper’s 
room, and in his own inimitable manner announced— 

“Miss Perry.” 

A decidedly severe, angular-looking dame disengaged 
her chin from a teacup. 

“The housekeeper, Mrs. Plunket,” Mr. Marchbanks 
deigned to explain to the owner of the straw hat. 

Marchbanks mentioned the name of Mrs. Plunket, the 


3 « 


ARAMINTA 


housekeeper, in a manner to suggest that reverence was 
expected from Miss Perry. Again, however, he was 
doomed to disappointment. The frigid inclination of 
Mrs. Plunket’s head merely provoked a frank and friendly 
impulse in Miss Perry. 

“Oh, how do you do?” said she. “I hope you are 
quite well.” 

To the dismay of Mr. Marchbanks and to the stupefac¬ 
tion of Mrs. Plunket, the new housemaid made a most 
determined effort to shake hands with that lady. 

Mrs. Plunket gave her a finger. Being as shortsighted 
as Marchbanks himself, she hastily adjusted her spectacles 
to make a more adequate survey of this remarkable person. 

Now, the first thing that impressed Mrs. Plunket was 
not the straw hat, not the gloves, not the frock, not the 
wicker basket, and not even the cloak with the hood. It 
was the truly Amazonian proportions of Miss Perry that 
first impressed her. 

She was exactly six feet tall in her stockings, no more 
and no less. And everything about her, from the too 
visible ankles upwards, were according to scale. Had 
Mrs. Plunket had an eye for such details, and unfor¬ 
tunately she had not, she would have observed, in addition 
to the disconcerting physique and the shabby and ill- 
fitting clothes, a pair of the bluest eyes and a mane of the 
yellowest hair that ever came out of Devon. It is true 
that the eyes were somewhat dim and heavy, because they 
had shed a vast quantity of tears during the past forty- 
eight hours. All the same, their quality was wonderful. 
Then also there was an equally wonderful West-country 
complexion, washed by the dew, fed by the sunshine, and 
refined by the winds of the sea and the moorland into a 
perfect glamour of pink and white. Yet these enchanting 
details had nothing to say to Mrs. Plunket. For the first 
time in her life she had engaged a new housemaid merely 


INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS 


39 


upon the strength of “high-class references,” with a fatal 
neglect of the precaution of “a personal interview.” In 
consequence the new housemaid proved to be six feet high, 
with a naivete of dress and deportment wholly beyond 
Mrs. Plunket’s experience. 

“Pray sit down.” Mrs. Plunket’s arctic air would not 
have disgraced the presiding genius of the blue drawing¬ 
room. 

Miss Perry sat down with spacious ease. She placed 
the wicker basket on her knees and rested her elbows 
upon it. 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” said Mrs. Plunket 
stiffly. 

“Thank you so much.” Miss Perry seemed sincerely 
gratified by the suggestion. 

Mr. Marchbanks retired discreetly, while Mrs. Plunket 
prepared a cup of tea for Miss Perry. As she handed it 
to her she gazed very sternly through her spectacles at the 
new housemaid, who sat nursing her wicker basket with 
perfect unconcern. 

“Thank you so much.” The cup of tea was accepted 
with really charming friendliness. 

“I had no idea that you were so large,” said Mrs. 
Plunket with an aggrieved air. “I think the fact ought 
to have been mentioned.” 

Miss Perry drew off her darned cotton gloves with 
great simplicity. 

“I am rather big,” said she; “but if the beds are too 
small I can curl myself up.” 

“I was not thinking of the beds,” said Mrs. Plunket 
severely. “There are all sizes here. I was thinking of 
her ladyship. She is very strict and somewhat old- 
fashioned in her ideas. I am afraid she may object to 
your appearance.” 

“Do you think so?” said Miss Perry, putting three 


40 


ARAMINTA 


lumps of sugar in her tea with the greatest amiability. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Plunket sternly, “I do. It is most 
unusual. Had you been an under-footman, of course it 
would not have mattered.” 

“Don’t you think so?” said Miss Perry, who seemed to 
be more interested in her cup of tea than in the subject of 
the under-footman. 

Now, Miss Perry had not a great brain. Indeed, in 
the opinion of those best qualified to speak upon the sub¬ 
ject, she had not a brain at all. She was just a child of 
Nature, curiously slow-witted, outspoken yet phlegmatic. 
Such a reception in the household of her august relation, 
whom she had never seen, and of whom the only thing 
she knew positively was that, in conjunction with the rest 
of that great family, she had treated her papa and her 
dead mamma abominably, ought to have given her 
furiously to think. No one, however, could have been 
less addicted to that process than Miss Perry. 

There certainly came into her mind a remarkable speech 
that had been made by her papa when he opened the 
coroneted envelope and read Aunt Caroline’s letter. “No 
doubt her ladyship has a vacancy for an under-house¬ 
maid!” he had said, with his whimsical laugh, which 
had yet been tried so severely by the things of this 
world as to be not quite so mirthful as it might have 
been. 

By the time Miss Perry had remembered this incident 
a deep wave of color had crept over her wonderful coun¬ 
tenance. But hers was the temperament of a philosopher. 
Instead of suffering an agony of horrified embarrass¬ 
ment, as some young ladies might have done, she merely 
regarded her tea and hoped to receive an invitation to 
partake of bread and butter. 

“You have been in service before, have you not?” said 
Mrs. Plunket. 


INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS 


4i 


“Oh, no,” drawled Miss Perry, finishing her cup of tea 
and looking as if she would like another. 

“I am afraid this is serious.” Mrs. Plunket’s dignity 
was chilling. “I have been misinformed.” 

A pause ensued, in which Miss Perry hoped in vain for 
a little more refreshment. 

“An awfully wet day, isn’t it?” said Miss Perry con¬ 
versationally. 

Mrs. Plunket was too much occupied with the appear¬ 
ance of the latest thing in housemaids to pay the least 
attention to the weather. 

“A mistake seems to have been made,” said the house¬ 
keeper acidly. “I am informed that your name is Perry.” 

The information was confirmed with modest yet charm¬ 
ing friendliness. 

“What is your first name?” Mrs. Plunket inquired. 

Miss Perry opened her blue eyes slowly to dimensions 
that were really extraordinary and gave a wise little 
shake to her mane, which was the color of daffodils. 

“My name is Ar-ah-min-tah.” The drawl was per¬ 
fectly ludicrous. “But they call me Goose because I am 
rather a sil-lay.” 

Mrs. Plunket sat bolt upright. Her face was a picture 
of horror. The latest thing in housemaids was too much 
for her. “Emma Maddison is the name of the person 
I am expecting,” she managed to say. 

“R-r-really.” The roll of Miss Perry’s “r’s” was 
inimitable. 

“Emma Maddison has been under-housemaid ten 
months in service of the Duchess Dowager of Black- 
hampton.” 

“R-r-really!” But the azure orbs of Miss Perry were 
fixed upon the teapot. 

Mrs. Plunket renewed her scrutiny of this remarkable 
housemaid. The battered straw hat or inverted vegetable 


42 


ARAMINTA 


basket which sagged at the brim in an almost immoral 
manner, the hooded cloak, the wicker basket with string 
attachment, and the unprecedented display of ankle came 
again within her ken. 

“This will never do.” In a fashion very similar the 
Right Honorable Lord Jeffrey had once reviewed the 
poetry of Mr. William Wordsworth. 

“Tell me,” said the housekeeper austerely, “where have 
you come from?” 

“My home is at Slocum Magna.” Miss Perry dis¬ 
sembled her pride in that fact in an uncommonly well- 
bred manner. 

“Where, pray, is Slocum Magna?” 

“Slocum Magna,” said Miss Perry, who was inclined 
to marvel at the ignorance of London people, “is the next 
parish to Widdiford.” 

“And where, pray, is Widdiford?” 

Miss Perry’s blue eyes opened to their limit. Widdi¬ 
ford was the center of civilization. It was the fixed 
standard by which the world itself was measured. Miss 
Perry slowly marshaled her battalions for a great intel¬ 
lectual display. 

“I started from Widdiford at a quarter past nine and 
I got to London at four. That makes nearly seven hours 
by railway, and you have to change twice.” 

During the pause which followed this announcement 
Mrs. Plunket grew very thoughtful indeed. Finally a 
clear conviction seemed to enfold her. 

“I am sorry, but I fear that an under-housemaid who 
is six feet high is out of question. Her ladyship has a 
rooted objection to any kind of extravagance.” 

Now Miss Perry was not in the least clever. Her 
knowledge of the world was wholly derived from that 
uncommonly rustic hamlet Slocum Magna. But she 
realized in her heavy-witted fashion that her Aunt Car- 


INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS 


43 


oline was a very proud and unfeeling old woman who 
had an odious way of treating her poor relations. There¬ 
fore, coming vaguely to discern that the situation in which 
she found herself must be very remarkable, a look of 
dismay began to settle upon her pink and white coun¬ 
tenance. 

Mrs. Plunket, observing it, was not disposed to be 
unkind. “You had better stay here to-night. And to¬ 
morrow morning your fare will be paid back to Slocum 
Magna.” 

At the mention of the blessed name of Slocum Magna 
the look of dismay lifted from the face of Miss Perry. 
But it was for a moment only. She remembered with a 
pang that she had come all the way to London on a great 
mission. The ebbing fortunes of the Vicarage were 
vested in her. When her dearest papa, whose trousers 
seemed to get shorter and shabbier every year, had 
watched her button a whole sovereign and two half- 
crowns and a third-class railway ticket into her glove 
on the down platform at Widdiford Junction and he had 
kissed her on both cheeks, he said, “If it were not for 
Dickie and Charley, and Polly and Milly and Muffin, we’d 
take precious good care that your Aunt Caroline did not 
rob us of the pick of the basket.” Therefore, very slowly 
yet very clearly, her duty seemed to shape itself in her 
mind. 

“Oh, if you please,” said she, “I don’t quite think I 
want to go back to Slocum Magna. Perhaps I might 
speak to Aunt Caroline.” 

“Aunt Caroline?” said Mrs. Plunket with a puzzled air. 

She then remembered that although Mrs. Bateman the 
cook was called Hannah, as cooks always are, her real 
name was Caroline. 

“I was not aware,” said Mrs. Plunket, “that you were 
a niece of Mrs. Bateman’s.” 


44 


ARAMINTA 


Miss Perry was not aware of it either. A ray of light 
percolated to that unsusceptible mind. All was explained. 
She had come to the wrong house. 

‘‘Is this Mrs. Bateman’s ?” she asked. 

“Certainly it is not Mrs. Bateman’s,” was the stern 
reply, “but she lives here, of course. Perhaps you would 
like to see her.” 

So much was Miss Perry mystified by this new turn of 
events that she was unable to say whether she would like 
to see Mrs. Bateman or not. In Mrs. Plunket’s opinion 
silence gave consent. She rang the bell and desired the 
immediate attendance of that lady. 

A portly, good-humored dame of florid complexion and 
communicative manners made her appearance. 

“Mrs. Bateman,” said Mrs. Plunket briefly, “I believe 
this is your niece.” 

Having overcome her first emotion of legitimate sur¬ 
prise, Mrs. Bateman welcomed Miss Perry with effusion. 

“Why,” she exclaimed, “it is that girl of Maria’s! 
She is the image of Maria. Very pleased to see you, 
my love. How’s your father?” 

The next thing of which Miss Perry grew conscious 
was that fat arms were hugging her and that she was 
being kissed in a very vigorous manner. 

“How like your mother, to be sure,” said Mrs. Bate¬ 
man, “and what a big girl you’ve grown!” 

“Too big, in my opinion, for good service,” said Mrs. 
Plunket. 

“You can’t have too much of a good thing, can you, 
my love?” said Mrs. Bateman. 

Miss Perry was bewildered. Mrs. Bateman was not 
at all like the Aunt Caroline she had expected to see. 

“Are you r-r-really Aunt Caroline?” she said, with her 
eyes at their widest. 

“Why, you must be Sally,” said Mrs. Bateman. 


INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS 


45 


“Little Sally Dickinson who used to be so fond of sugar.” 

“It seems to have been a stimulating diet,” said Mrs. 
Plunket. 

“Little Sally Dickinson, who didn’t like to go to bed 
early,” said Mrs. Bateman. “Law, how you’ve grown, 
my dear!” 

“My name is Araminta Perry,” drawled that remark¬ 
able person with great solemnity. 

“Sally Dickinson, my love,” said Mrs. Bateman, “I 
should know you anywhere.” 

It was now the turn of Mrs. Plunket to grow be¬ 
wildered. 

“There is a mystery here,” said she. “If she is 
Araminta Perry she cannot be Sally Dickinson, and if 
she is Sally Dickinson she cannot be Araminta Perry.” 

All concerned seemed to feel that this was sound 
reasoning. 

“That is quite right, ma’am,” Mrs. Bateman agreed. 
“It is common sense and human nature.” 

“Are you r-r-really Aunt Caroline?” The blue eyes 
of Miss Perry grew rounder and rounder. 

“Of course I am, my love,” said the cook affectionately. 
“And very proud to be the aunt of such a bouncing girl 
as you.” 

It was left to the practical intelligence of the house¬ 
keeper to find a solution to the puzzle. 

“I presume,” said she to Miss Perry with great severity, 
“that Bateman is the name of your Aunt Caroline.” 

“Oh, no,” said that Featherbrain. 

“No!” gasped Mrs. Bateman. 

“No!” said Mrs. Plunket. “Then what, pray, is the 
name of your Aunt Caroline?” 

The fair Araminta knitted her brows. Was there ever 
anything so unlucky? The name of her august relation 
had passed clean out of her head. 


4 6 


ARAMINTA 


“I don’t remember,” drawled Miss Featherbrain in the 
throes of mental conflict. 

“You don’t remember!” said Mrs. Plunket. “Upon 
my word!” 

Mrs. Plunket and Mrs. Bateman subjected Miss Perry 
to a prolonged scrutiny. 

“There,” said Mrs. Bateman triumphantly, “it is just 
as I said. She is Sally Dickinson.” 

“Try to remember the first letter of your aunt’s name.” 
The tone of the housekeeper sounded harsh in the ear of 
the cook, but it seemed to make no particular impact upon 
Miss Perry. 

That Featherbrain mustered all her battalions. She 
knitted her brows more heavily, she clasped her wicker 
basket yet more firmly. In the process of time an in¬ 
spiration came to her. 

“She’s the Countess of Something!” 

Mrs. Plunket sat bolt upright, as if moved by an invis¬ 
ible spring. 

“The Countess of Something!” Upon one side of her 
face was incredulity, upon the other was dismay. Then 
she gazed bleakly at the cook. 

“The Countess of Crewkerne,” said Miss Featherbrain 
with an air of triumph. 

Mrs. Bateman gave a little howl. 

“Oh, lord!” Mrs. Bateman simply turned and bolted. 

Mrs. Plunket, as became her exalted position, showed 
herself of finer mettle. 

“Miss Perry,” said she with a dignity that was really 
admirable, “I apologize for a most unfortunate mistake. 
It is exceedingly regrettable. I hope you will be so kind 
as not to mention the matter to her ladyship.” 

Miss Perry promised not to do so with an amiability 
that was very reassuring. 

Marchbanks was promptly summoned. 


INSTINCT OF MR. MARCHBANKS 


47 


“A most unfortunate mistake has been made,” said 
Mrs. Plunket to that ambassador. “Miss Perry is her 
ladyship’s niece.” 

To say that a feather would have knocked Marchbanks 
over is to state the case lightly. Yet even in the depths 
of his consternation he directed a glance of solemn un¬ 
belief at the preposterous hat. 

“Please announce Miss Perry’s arrival to her ladyship,”' 
said Mrs. Plunket, “but do not mention anything else.” 

Marchbanks was besieged with doubt as he made his 
way to the blue drawing-room. In spite of Mrs. Plun- 
ket’s remarkable statement, incredulity still reigned in his 
mind. It was possible that a hideous error had been com¬ 
mitted; and yet in the ripeness of his judgment he clearly 
foresaw the possibility of committing another. He had 
the housekeeper’s authority that the nondescript creature 
who had come with a corded box in a four-wheeler, who 
wore an unseemly hat, unmentionable gloves and boots, 
and who had attempted to shake hands with him, was 
her ladyship’s niece; but all the same, he had his own 
opinion. 

Marchbanks entered the blue drawing-room on the 
horns of a dilemma. It was difficult to know what line 
to take. 

He was glad to observe that Lady Crewkerne was alone 
with her gentlewoman. They were engaged in a game 
of piquet; and Miss Burden was just about to be rubi- 
coned, an indignity she suffered on an average three 
times a day. 

Marchbanks approached his mistress, and having 
waited while she claimed two for the last trick, said— 

“A young person of the name of Perry is arrived, 
my lady.” 

The old woman looked at the butler bleakly. 

“Pray what is that to do with me?” 


48 


ARAMINTA 


For the moment it seemed that the name of Perry had 
passed as completely out of her head as if it had never 
been in it, and the question she put to Marchbanks was 
precisely the one that diplomatist desired her to answer 
herself. 

“She appears to have business with your ladyship.’* 

“Very odd,” said Caroline Crewkeme. “A young 
person of the name of Perry.” 

And then quite suddenly the light dawned upon her. 

“Of course,” she said to her gentlewoman; “I had 
forgotten. That girl of Polly’s.” 

Like a hawk she swooped down upon the luckless 
Marchbanks. 

“Tell me, Marchbanks,” she said, “what you mean 
precisely by a young person of the name of Perry. Do 
you wish me to infer that she is not a lady?” 

It was as tight a corner as Marchbanks had ever been in. 
Yet he yielded to none in professional wisdom. 

“I don’t wish to infer, your ladyship, that she might 
not be a lady,” said Marchbanks cautiously. 

“It appears to me,” said his venerable mistress, “that 
you are getting too old for your place. I will see my 
niece, Miss Perry.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” said Marchbanks, a bead of 
perspiration gathering slowly upon his forehead. 


CHAPTER VI 

UNWARRANTABLE BEHAVIOR OF TOBIAS 


L ADY CREWKERNE sat very upright to receive 
her niece. 

All the same, a subtle air of triumph may have 
been hovering round the impassive figure of Marchbanks 
as he announced Miss Perry. For Chat irresponsible 
creature still retained her hooded cloak, the preposterous 
hat was there in all its naivete, her frock looked more 
shrunken and her cobbled boots more conspicuous than 
ever, and in her left hand the wicker basket tied with 
string was very firmly borne. 

As a preliminary measure, the old woman gazed 
through her spectacles at her protegee with a resolution 
that was truly awful. But more than this was required 
to defeat Miss Perry. 

“Oh, how do you do?” That irresponsible came 
forward, completely enveloping Aunt Caroline in a most 
gracious beam. “I hope you are quite well.” 

The presiding genius of the blue drawing-room gave 
a snort. She looked Miss Perry up and she looked Miss 
Perry down, from the top of the luckless hat to the soles 
of the cobbled boots. Slowly the Amazonian propor¬ 
tions, which the general inadequacy of the outgrown 
garments seemed to enhance, sank into the ruthless critic. 
The grim old mouth relaxed in frank astonishment. 
“Dear me!” it said. “How uncomfortable!” 

Miss Perry was not really abashed, although the turban, 
the spectacles, the ebony cane, the hawklike features and 

49 


50 


ARAMINTA 


the day-of-judgment demeanor certainly gave pause to 
that Featherbrain. At least, she opened her eyes very 
wide and gripped her wicker basket very firmly. 

The old woman’s truculent gaze fell upon that unfor¬ 
tunate accompaniment. 

“What, pray, is that contrivance?” she demanded. 

Miss Perry tucked the wicker basket under her arm. 

“Oh, if you please, Aunt Caroline,” she said with a 
drawl that was quite irresistibly foolish, “this is Tobias.” 

“Tobias!” said the old woman suspiciously. “Who, 
pray, and what, pray, is Tobias?” 

Lady Crewkerne was not alone in her suspiciousness. 
It was shared by Ponto. That overfed animal, having 
made a very good luncheon indeed, was curled up at the 
feet of his mistress. Yet at the mere mention of Tobias 
—whether by an association of ideas or by a process of 
mental telepathy peculiar to the dumb creation would be 
difficult to say—Ponto began to grow decidedly restless. 

“I trust,” said Aunt Caroline, viewing the wicker bas¬ 
ket with an increasing disfavor, “that Tobias is not any 
kind of an animal.” 

In sympathy with his mistress, Ponto opened his eyes 
and began to grow uncommonly wide-awake. 

“Tobias is just a sweet,” said Miss Perry with a 
charming air of reassurance. “He is just an old 
precious.” 

Lady Crewkerne became so arctic as she turned her 
attention to the custodian of Tobias that both Miss 
Burden and Marchbanks were chilled to the marrow. 

“If Tobias is a living thing, and there is every reason 
to believe that it is, I forbid it the blue drawing-room. 
And I consider it an act of gross impertinence—” 

However, before Aunt Caroline could conclude a speech 
which was meant to exterminate both Tobias and his 
custodian, there befell a really terrible occurrence. 


BEHAVIOR OF TOBIAS 


5i 


Whether Tobias, growing incensed at his excommunica¬ 
tion, became violent in his basket, or whether his cus¬ 
todian was so much distressed as to relax her hold upon 
it, will never be known with any degree of certainty. 
But right in the middle of Aunt Caroline's peroration the 
wicker basket fell with a thud on to the carpet. 

At the same instant the lid fell off in the most dramatic 
manner. Two yellow shin pads, scarred with honorable 
service in the hockey field, and a long, lean, brown body 
flew out together. Miss Burden screamed; and incredible 
as it may appear, Ponto shot straight up the window 
curtains, and feeling dear life to be at stake, proceeded 
to balance himself very precariously upon the pole that 
ran across the top. 

Miss Burden approached the verge of hysteria. 
Marchbanks seemed overwhelmed. As for the owner of 
Tobias, she picked up the yellow shin pads with leisurely 
and charming unconcern, quite as if nothing had hap¬ 
pened. Aunt Caroline’s nerves were undoubtedly shaken; 
all the same, she kept command of a lively and vigorous 
self-possession. 

She gathered her black silk dress about her, and poised 
her ebony walking stick determinedly, and then stormed. 

“What is it?” she demanded. “Tell me, is it a snake?” 

Miss Burden screamed. 

Araminta returned the yellow shin pads to the wicker 
basket with a leisureliness that was highly reassuring. 

“Speak, girl,” stormed Aunt Caroline. “What is it? 
If you have dared to introduce a live reptile into my 
drawing-room you shall both leave this house imme¬ 
diately.” 

Even this decree did not perturb Miss Perry. Her 
natural stolidity was quite unimpaired. 

“Oh no, dearest Aunt Caroline,” she drawled. “Tobias 
ismot a snake.” 


52 


ARAMINTA 


“Humph! Very reassuring! What is he, then?” 

“He is only a ferret.” 

The old woman breathed blood and fire. 

“A ferret!” she stormed. “In my drawing-room! I 
positively forbid anything of the kind. Marchbanks, 
remove it immediately, and then have the goodness to 
fetch Ponto down from the curtain pole.” 

Marchbanks did not quite know how to grapple with 
the situation. To begin with, although his experience of 
men and things was very wide, he had never handled a 
ferret in his life. And, again, it was not easy to know 
where Tobias had got to. 

“Remove it immediately,” stormed Aunt Caroline. 

Very cautiously Marchbanks stooped to peer under the 
table. To his infinite relief Tobias was not there. 

However, the hawklike eyes of his mistress soon de¬ 
tected the whereabouts of the alien presence. 

“It is behind the window curtains.” 

Marchbanks approached the window curtains very 
warily. But even then he was unable to see Tobias. 

“There it is,” said the mistress. “In the corner there. 
Approach quietly. And if you value your fingers be 
careful where you put them.” 

Marchbanks appeared to value his fingers so much that 
nothing seemed farther from his intention than to bring 
them into the vicinity of Tobias. 

“Why don’t you do as you are told, man? There it 
is in the corner, straight in front of your nose.” 

Marchbanks, however, still seemed wholly unable to 
locate Tobias. 

It was left to Miss Perry to play the part of the god¬ 
dess out of the machine. That Featherbrain, having 
clearly realized the situation at last, came forward to the 
window curtains, open basket in hand, in the friendliest 
and most reassuring manner. 


BEHAVIOR OF TOBIAS 


53 


“He is just a sweet,’’ she said for the benefit of March- 
banks. “If you take him round the throat gently he 
never bites a soul. There he is, the duckums!” 

Marchbanks appeared still unable to see Tobias. 

“Do you think,” said Miss Perry, “I had better take 
him myself?” 

“Girl,” stormed Aunt Caroline, “I certainly think you 
had better.” 

Marchbanks, who seemed quite to share the opinion of 
his mistress, stepped back haughtily several paces. 

“Come along, then.” Miss Perry began cooing to the 
window curtains. “Come along, Toby, then.” She knelt 
down and began to grope. “Come along, Toby, boy. 
There he is, the sweet!” 

Very deftly she made a grab at the lurking, lean, brown 
form of Tobias, took him by the throat, popped him into 
the open basket and fastened down the lid. 

“He wouldn’t bite a soul.” She stood up with a smile 
of invincible friendliness. “He is just a precious.” 

“Carry it into the hall,” ordered Aunt Caroline. 
“Have the goodness, Marchbanks, to fetch down 
Ponto.” 

Poised very insecurely upon a chair, Marchbanks found 
it by no means easy to induce Ponto to quit his place of 
refuge. At length, however, he was able to restore the 
quivering creature to his mistress. 

In the meantime Araminta, with affectionate pride, 
had carried the wicker basket into the hall. 

“Miss Burden,” said the old woman truculently, “that 
girl deserves to be whipped.” 

As soon as Araminta returned Aunt Caroline, with up¬ 
lifted finger, ordered her to approach. 

“Come here, girl. I think your behavior is disgraceful. 
Were you brought up in a barn?” 

Such a direct and ruthless mode of address caused a 


54 


ARAMINTA 


flow of color to overspread the extremely picturesque 
countenance of Miss Perry. Quite suddenly her large 
blue eyes swam with tears. 

“Tobias did not mean any harm,” said she. “He is 
such a sweet. It was not his fault that I dropped the 
basket.” 

“No more of Tobias, if you please. Now understand” 
—up went a lean finger—“upon no pretext whatever do 
I allow ferrets to enter my drawing-room. I really— 
I—upon my word-!” 

Aunt Caroline subsided in an incoherent gurgle of 
indignation. 

Meanwhile, the sight of tears, as was always the case, 
had moved the tender heart of Miss Burden. 

“Dear Lady Crewkerne,” she said, “Miss Perry has 
had quite a long journey. She must be tired, I feel sure. 
Would she not like a little refreshment?” 

The mention of the word refreshment seemed unmis¬ 
takably to touch a responsive chord in the susceptible 
mechanism of Miss Perry. 

“Bring some tea.” Aunt Caroline addressed March- 
banks very gruffly. And then to the culprit with really 
tremendous austerity, “Would you like something to 
eat?” 

“Oh yes, please,” said Miss Perry. At the same time 
she mopped up her tears with an absurdly small blue- 
spotted handkerchief. 

“What do you eat as a rule?” The sarcasm was not 
in the least obvious to Miss Perry. 

“I eat bread and jam as a rule.” 

“Humph!” With her grim eyes the old woman scru¬ 
tinized her niece as if she were a rare specimen in the 
Zoological Gardens. “Bread and jam,” said she. And 
then, with an air of really tremendous sarcasm, “Have 
the goodness, Marchbanks, to bring some bread and jam.” 



BEHAVIOR OF TOBIAS 


55 

Lady Crewkerne made a second survey of Miss Perry, 
from the crown of the luckless straw hat to the soles of 
the cobbled boots, while that young woman folded up 
the handkerchief neatly and returned it to a mysterious 
pocket. In a remarkably solemn manner she then stood 
wondering what was going to happen. 

“Sit down,” said the old woman. 

Miss Perry sat down spaciously upon a chair that was 
particularly fragile. 

“The most uncomfortable creature I have ever seen,” 
said Lady Crewkerne in an aside to her gentlewoman. 
“Quite out of place in a drawing-room.” And then to 
the visitor: “Have you ever been in a drawing-room 
before ?” 

Miss Perry had been, it appeared. 

“Where?” 

“We have one at home,” drawled Miss Perry, “but it 
is only a little one.” 

“Ah!” said the old woman. “And where is your home, 
pray?” 

“I live at the Vicarage at Slocum Magna.” 

“Humph! Some kind of clerical bear garden, I 
presume.” 

The providential reappearance of Marchbanks came to 
the aid of Miss Perry. He bore a massive silver tray, 
with a teapot equally massive upon it. There was also 
an exquisite plate of old blue china. Upon this were five 
tiny pieces of bread and butter, each a little larger 
than Miss Perry's thumbnail, each arranged at an 
artistic angle, and each spread with a very thin layer of 
jam. 

A choicely-wrought Indian table was set before Miss 
Perry. Marchbanks placed the silver trap upon it. 

Miss Perry sat very upright indeed. “Thank you ever 
so much.” Her air was so charmingly sincere that it 


56 


ARAMINTA 


went some way towards reconciling Marchbanks to many 
things. 

Again the old woman had recourse to her spectacles. 
From the general irony of her demeanor it was clear that 
she was expecting developments. She was not dis¬ 
appointed. 

For a moment Miss Perry appeared to be rather 
troubled by the waferlike texture of the bread and jam. 
It was only for a moment, however. Without waiting to 
pour out the tea into the tiny blue china cup provided for 
its reception, she proceeded very carefully to pile each of 
the waferlike pieces of bread and jam one upon another. 
Having thereby formed a tolerable morsel, Miss Perry 
opened a very large mouth and placed gently but firmly 
therein the five pieces as one. 

Lady Crewkerne met the half-frightened gaze of her 
gentlewoman with a look that no pen can describe. But 
Miss Perry masticated her morsel very slowly, with 
supreme unconcern. 

“Miss Burden, have the goodness to ring the bell. ,> 
The politeness of Aunt Caroline was formidable. 

Marchbanks obeyed the summons. As a preliminary 
measure his mistress fixed that diplomatist with her eye. 
She literally dared him to move a muscle. 

“Another plate of bread and jam, Marchbanks.” 

The butler’s bow would have done no discredit to a 
Foreign Office reception. 

“Thank you ever so much,” said Miss Perry. 

Lady Crewkerne turned to Miss Perry, who appeared 
to be greatly stimulated by the morsel she had eaten and 
still further by the prospect of one to follow. 

“By the way, where is Slocum Magna?” 

Miss Perry’s blue eyes, which by now were quite dry, 
opened to a width that was astonishing. The ignorance 
of London people was most remarkable. 


BEHAVIOR OF TOBIAS 



“Slocum Magna is the next village to Widdiford,” said 
Miss Perry impressively. 

“Ah, yes, the next village to Widdiford. One ought 
to have known.” 

The manner in which Miss Perry tried to gloss over 
the painful ignorance of her august relation was a triumph 
of good breeding. “They haven’t quite got the railway 
at Widdiford yet, don’t you know, but it is only three 
miles away.” 

Slowly, with a grim chuckle, Aunt Caroline repeated 
this statement. 

The arrival of the second relay of bread and jam im¬ 
posed silence upon Miss Perry. She displayed equal 
efficiency in dealing with it. Miss Burden still looked a 
little frightened, while Ponto raised himself on his fore¬ 
paws with a look of open admiration. 

“By the way, what is your name?” said Aunt Caro¬ 
line. 

A pause of some length was necessary for Miss Perry 
to cope with such a leading question. 

“My name is Araminta,” said she, carrying her drawl 
to such a ridiculous length that even Ponto might have 
been excused for smiling at it, “but they call me Goose 
because I am rather a sil-lay.” 

The beak of the old woman seemed to take an additional 
curve. The hanging-judge look had never seemed so 
awe-inspiring. 

“Your name is Araminta,” she repeated with a delibera¬ 
tion that was positively sinister, “but they call you Goose 
because you are rather a silly. Do they indeed!” 

Miss Perry beamed upon Lady Crewkerne with a 
friendliness that was perfectly distracting. 

“I don’t think I am really a silly,” said she, as if she 
were quite convinced that she were not, “but Muffin says 
I am. It’s because I can never remember whether 


58 


ARAMINTA 


Tuesday comes after Monday or whether Monday comes 
after Tuesday/’ 

“Who, pray, is Muffin?” 

“Muffin is my sister, don’t you know. Her name is 
Elizabeth really, but we call her Muffin because she is 
rather a ragamuffin.” 

“Humph!” said Aunt Caroline. 

By nature Lady Crewkerne was grave and grim, but 
it was Miss Burden’s opinion that she had never looked 
quite so grave and quite so grim as in the course of this 
first interview with the late Lady Augusta’s second 
daughter. 

Said the old woman in a truculent aside: “This 
comes of mixing the breed. Polly was a born fool, but 
she was never equal to this. What is to be done with the 
creature? It was my intention to marry her respectably 
so that she might be a help to her family, who are as poor 
as mice and who appear to live like pigs. But who, pray, 
will marry a natural?” 

Miss Burden, however, was at heart incurably romantic. 
She demurred with a vigor she seldom displayed. 

“She is a singularly beautiful girl. Her manner is 
delightfully her own. She is formed like a goddess and 
she is perfectly charming.” 

“Faugh!” said the old woman ruthlessly. “Miss 
Burden, you are a born fool. The creature is an idiot. 
Look at her now.V 

Araminta had renounced her chair for a very good 
reason. She was sitting now in the middle of the sofa. 
Her lips were slightly parted and one finger was unmis¬ 
takably in her mouth. Her blue eyes were gazing, gaz¬ 
ing into the far inane. Moreover, they appeared to be 
a trifle moist. The fact was that at that moment she 
was back at the Vicarage at Slocum Magna. Her sister 
Polly was pouring out tea for seven in really sensible cups, 


BEHAVIOR OF TOBIAS 


59 


and Araminta herself was engaged in carving a piece of 
bread in accordance with her personal fancy. At the 
Vicarage it was the rational rule always to cut your own 
bread and spread your own jam; and these comestibles 
being made at home, were among the very few things of 
which you could have as much as you wanted. 

Doubtless it was an unfortunate moment for the 
higher criticism to observe Miss Perry. 

“An extraordinary creature!” proclaimed Aunt Caro¬ 
line. 

“I am reminded of some one,” said Miss Burden, “yet 
I cannot think who. It is somebody who is celebrated.” 

“That abandoned straw hat! It appears to have been 
used originally for carrying vegetables.” 

“She reminds me of some one,” said Miss Burden 
plaintively. “Who can it be, I wonder?” 

Before this interesting speculation could be carried far¬ 
ther an event of the first magnitude happened. March- 
banks solemnly announced: “The Earl of Cheriton!” 


CHAPTER VII 


A THROWBACK 

B EARING a modest parcel with a certain ostenta¬ 
tion, Lord Cheriton entered the blue drawing¬ 
room. 

“Caroline,” said he, “as I was leaving my barber’s it 
suddenly occurred to me that for the first time in forty 
years I had forgotten your birthday. Last year I ven¬ 
tured to offer you a Bible. This year I bring this. v 

My lord cut the string of the parcel and handed his 
gift to Caroline Crewkerne. 

With a grim, but not ungraceful inclination of the 
second best turban, the recipient divested the present of 
its numerous trappings. A small but expensive hand¬ 
glass was exposed to view. 

“Thank you, Cheriton. A very charming present.” 
“I hope it pleases you, my dear Caroline,” said Cher¬ 
iton, with quite the bel air. “You have so long defied 
time that one felt you might like a memento of its im¬ 
potence.” 

“Thank you, Cheriton. It is very kind of you to 
remember an old woman.” 

“A woman is as old as she looks—as Byron says.” 
“Byron?” 

“I ascribe every truism to Byron. It confers a fac¬ 
titious importance and at the same time is perfectly safe. 
Everybody pretends to have read Byron, yet nobody has.” 
“Miss Burden has read him, I believe.” 

That lady sighed romantically. 

60 


A THROWBACK 


61 


Lord Cheriton shook his finger with arch solemnity. 
“No boy under the age of twenty,”' said he, “should be 
allowed to smoke cigarettes. And no woman under forty 
should be permitted to read Byron.” 

Caroline Crewkerne snorted. 

“By the way,” said Cheriton, “now I am here I must 
pay homage to my duchess.” 

My lord took a half turn in the direction of the sofa. 
Still seated in the middle, in her pensive attitude, was 
Miss Perry. She was still gazing, gazing into the inane; 
and she was a little in the shadow. 

Immediately to the left of Miss Perry, intervening 
between her and Aunt Caroline, was the object that for 
the moment claimed the whole of Cheriton’s attention. 
Rightly so, indeed, for it was nothing less than one of the 
world’s masterpieces. It was a full-length portrait in a 
massive gilt frame: a truly regal canvas in the meridian 
splendor of English art. Beneath the picture was the 
magic legend, “Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gains¬ 
borough.” 

Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, was a young girl in her 
feens, in a hat of the period. Her ineffably simple coun¬ 
tenance was a glamour of pink and white; her lips were 
slightly parted; the wonderful blue eyes were fixed upon 
vacancy; and one finger was unmistakably in her mouth. 

Cheriton, having fixed his eyeglass with some elabora¬ 
tion, slowly backed a few paces and fell into the pose he 
always affected in the presence of this noble work. 

In silence he absorbed the poetry, the innocence, the 
appeal of youth. He sighed deeply. 

“Caroline,” he said, “I would give a whole row of 
Georgiana Devonshires for this. In my humble judg¬ 
ment it has never been equaled.” 

“Grandmamma Dorset wears well,” said Caroline with 
a grim chuckle. 


62 


ARAMINTA 


“It ought to be called ‘Simplicity,’ it ought to be called 
‘Innocence.’ Upon my word, when I look at the divine 
Araminta I always feel that I want to shed tears.” 

Caroline Crewkerne snorted. 

“Cheriton,” said she, “I have noticed that when a man 
begins life as a cynic he ends invariably as a sentimen¬ 
talist.” 

“You are a pagan, Caroline.” Her old friend sighed 
deeply. “You have no soul.” 

“Miss Burden has a soul,” said the contemptuous 
Caroline. “In my opinion she would be better without 
it.” 

“How ironical it is that you who distrust art so pro¬ 
foundly should have such a masterpiece in your drawing¬ 
room !” 

“I understand that a committee would like to buy it 
for the nation,” said the owner of the masterpiece with 
a gleam of malice. 

“But years ago you promised that if the time ever came 
when money could buy Araminta she should go to Cher¬ 
iton House.”' 

“Well, the time has not come yet.” 

“It will,” said Cheriton shrewdly. “And then I shall 
hold you to your promise.” 

While Cheriton continued his examination of a noble 
work said Caroline Crewkerne to her gentlewoman— 

“My spectacles, please.” 

Cheriton turned away from the picture at last. Natu¬ 
rally enough his gaze fell on the sofa. Sitting in the ex¬ 
act center thereof was the astonishing Miss Perry. She 
was still at Slocum Magna. She had got to her third 
slice of bread and jam. Polly was pouring out a second 
sensible cup. Dearest Papa had just made one of his 
jokes. Charley and Milly were having an argument as to 
who was entitled to the cake with the almonds in it. Miss 


A THROWBACK 


63 

Perry’s blue eyes were unmistakably moist; and although 
she was not actually sucking her finger, there could be no 
doubt that at any moment she might begin to do so. And 
the inverted vegetable basket that crowned her seemed to 
flop more than ever. 

It was no wonder that my lord gave a little exclamation. 
A lover of beauty in all its manifestations, he had an eye 
for nature as well as for art. And here, side by side with 
Gainsborough’s masterpiece, making due allowance for a 
number of trifling details which did not in the least affect 
the subject, was an almost uncanny replica of that im¬ 
mortal work. Cheriton, in spite of his foibles, had a 
seeing eye. Notwithstanding the cobbled boots, the print 
frock and the cloak with the hood, one thing was clear. 
Here was Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, in the flesh. 

He swung round to his old friend, the glass leaping out 
of his eye. 

“Caroline,” he cried, “a throwback!” 

The old woman gazed through her spectacles at the 
occupant of the sofa. Miss Perry, still at Slocum Magna, 
was seriously considering whether a fourth slice of bread 
and jam was within the range of practical politics. 

“Cheriton,” said Caroline coolly, “I believe you are 
right.” 

Surprise and enthusiasm began to play sad havoc with 
the amateur of the fine arts. 

“Upon my word,” said he, “it is the most wonderful 
thing I have ever seen in my life. A pretty trick of old 
Mother Nature’s.” 

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton.” 

“A perfect throwback!” 

Once more the gaze of my lord was brought to bear on 
the sofa’s occupant, whose hair was the color of daffodils 
and whose eyes were like the sky of Italy. The empress - 
ement of his manner was a little overwhelming. 


64 


ARAMINTA 


“There is no need to ask,” said he, “whether the famous 
duchess is a kinswoman.” 

Miss Perry returned from Slocum Magna with a little 
start. She removed her finger from her lip, yet her 
thoughts were not of famous duchesses. 

In the meantime the redoubtable Caroline said nothing. 
All the same, she was watching everything with those 
terrible eyes of hers. 

Miss Perry showed neither surprise nor embarrassment 
at being summoned from Slocum Magna so peremptorily 
by such a superb specimen of the human race. Perhaps 
her amazing blue eyes opened a little wider and she may 
or she may not have hoisted a little color; but it really 
seemed as if her thoughts were more concerned with 
bread and jam than with Lord Cheriton. 

“Forgive an old worshiper of your famous ancestress 
if he asks your name,” he said. “I hope and believe it 
is a legitimate curiosity.” 

Miss Featherbrain made an effort to cease wool-gather¬ 
ing. She smiled with a friendliness that would have dis¬ 
armed a satyr. 

“My name is Araminta.” The drawl was hopelessly 
absurd. “But they call me Goose because I am rather a 
sil-lay.” 

Cheriton gave a chuckle of sheer human pleasure. He 
felt that a new joy had been offered to an existence which 
had long exhausted every aesthetic form of delight. 

“Your name is Araminta,” he repeated by a kind of 
hypnotic process, “but they call you Goose because you 
are rather a silly.” 

Miss Perry rewarded Lord Cheriton with an indulgent 
beam which assured him that it was his happiness to inter¬ 
pret her correctly. It was not easy for such a connoisseur 
to withdraw his enchanted gaze, but he was able to do so 
at last. He turned to his old friend. 


A THROWBACK 


65 


Caroline,” he said, “the fairies have fulfilled my wish. 
I have always wanted to meet a Gainsborough in the flesh 
and to hear what she had to say for herself. And now 
I have done so I know why Gainsborough painted ’em.” 

“Faugh!” The old woman snorted vigorously. “Sen¬ 
timentality is the national bane.” 

“No, Caroline, you’ve no soul. Why don’t you present 
me?” 

“My niece, Miss Perry. Lord Cheriton, an old! 
friend.” 

“Oh, how do you do.” Miss Perry shot out her hand 
in her own private and particular manner to Aunt 
Caroline’s old friend. “I hope you are quite well.” 

My lord's inclosure of the ample paw of Miss Perry, 
which nevertheless, speaking relatively, contrived to 
appear long and slender, in his own delicately manicured 
fingers was almost epic. 

“Miss Perry,” said he, “this is a great moment in my 
life.”' 

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton,” said Caroline with 
great energy. It was so necessary that the wearer of the 
inverted vegetable basket should not get notions under it 
before she had been in Mayfair an hour. 

“My dear Miss Perry”—it was the magniloquent air 
with which my lord asked an occasional question in the 
Gilded Chamber—“are you acquainted with the vast 
metropolis ?” 

“I have always lived at Slocum Magna,” said Miss 
Perry with divine simplicity. 

“Oh, really!” said my lord, with insincere surprise. 
“By the way, where is Slocum Magna?” 

Doubtless owing to the fact that she was a duke’s 
granddaughter Miss Perry had excellent if somewhat 
rustic breeding. Brains were not her strong point, but 
she had been long enough in London to anticipate almost 


66 


ARAMINTA 


instinctively Lord Cheriton’s inquiry. Moreover, her 
astonishment at the ignorance of London people was 
softened by the friendly indulgence she offered on the 
slightest pretext to all the world and his wife. 

“Slocum Magna/ 1 ’ said Miss Perry, without the least 
appearance of didacticism, “is the next village to Widdi- 
ford. They haven’t quite got the railway at Widdiford, 
yet, don’t you know, but it is only three miles away.” 

The absence of the railway at Widdiford seemed a 
deciding factor in my lord’s course of action. With the 
air of a man whose mind is quite made up, he addressed 
the fair inhabitant of Slocum Magna, North Devon. 

“As an old friend of your accomplished aunt,” said he, 
“I feel that during your sojourn in the vast metropolis it 
is only wise and right that I should act, as it were, in * 
loco parentis” 

Although Miss Perry’s papa was a very good classic, 
he had been unable to communicate his excellence in the 
dead languages to his second daughter. Her eyes 
expressed an earnest desire for a little more enlighten¬ 
ment. 

“A sort of combination, you know,” said Cheriton 
lucidly, “of a courier, a cicerone and a sincere well-wisher. 
One feels sure it will help you at first to have some one 
to guide you through the traffic.” 

“Thank you ever so much,” said Miss Perry. “It will 
be too sweet.’’’ 

“Miss Burden is fully competent to see that she doesn’t 
get run over,” said the tart voice of Aunt Caroline. 

“Also, my dear Miss Perry,” said the mellifluous 
Cheriton, “you may like a little occasional advice from 
a man of the world. Our vast metropolis is full of pit- 
falls for your sex.” 

“We have poachers at Slocum Magna,” said Miss 
Perry thrillingly. 


A THROWBACK 67 

“The metropolis is different. One regrets to say that 
it harbors every known form of wickedness.” 

Miss Perry’s eyes opened so wide that they seemed to 
magnetize my lord. 

“Are there r-r-robbers ?” 

“A great number. They lurk in every thoroughfare. 
If you really don’t know our vast metropolis you must 
have advice and protection.” 

“How splendid!” cried Miss Perry. “I shall write to 
tell Muffin.” 

“Would it be an unpardonable curiosity if one asks 
who is Muffin?” 

“My sister, don’t you know. Her name is Elizabeth 
really, but we call her Muffin because she is rather a raga¬ 
muffin.” 

“A singularly interesting family, if one may say so 
without impertinence.” 

“Papa says we are none of us very bright, but we are 
all of us very healthy, excepting Doggo, who has had the 
mange twice.” 

My lord softly repeated the dictum of Miss Perry’s 
papa. Then in a truly paternal fashion he sat on the sofa 
by her side. 

“Do tell me about your papa,” he said. There was a 
whimsical look in the faded eyes. “One ought to have 
so many things in common with such a papa as yours.” 

“Papa is just a sweet—” began Miss Perry, with a 
perfectly delightful fervency. But she did not get far. 

Aunt Caroline lifted a stern finger. 

“Araminta,” said she, “Miss Burden will take you to 
your room.” 

Miss Perry rose at once with a docility that was charm¬ 
ing. She bestowed her most frankly indulgent beam 
upon Lord Cheriton before quitting the drawing-room 
in Miss Burden’s care. 


68 


ARAMINTA 


Cheriton screwed a glass into an astonished eye to gaze 
after so much magnificence. 

“A goddess! Juno! A great work of nature!” 

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton,” said the warning 
voice. 

My lord prepared to take his leave. 

“I am afraid, Caroline,” said he, “your memory begins 
to fail a little.” 

“Rubbish!” 

“Do you know how long it is since you asked me to 
dine with you?” 

“You refused three times running. I am determined 
that no human being shall refuse a fourth.” 

“Well, I will dine with you this evening.” 

“Thank you, Cheriton,” said Caroline dryly. “Eight 
o’clock.” 

“Eight o’clock.” And he took his leave with a jaunti¬ 
ness that recalled a long-vanished youth. 

Two hours later my lord was back in Hill Street. 
He looked particularly soigne in the choicest of 
evening clothes. They fitted his corseted form to 
perfection. 

“Where is the fair Miss Araminta?” said he, yielding 
his arm to his hostess. 

“My niece is dining upstairs this evening,” said Caroline 
Crewkerne. 

Profoundly distrusting the sherry and the claret, the 
guest made a modest demand for a whisky and soda. 
The fare was scanty, but what there was of it was not 
ill cooked. Also Caroline was not so tiresome as he had 
anticipated. She was a little uplifted, no doubt, by the 
events of the day. This very sharp-witted old woman 
had already foreseen that the appearance of a highly 
original niece in a moribund menage might bring the 
world back to Hill Street. The spectacle of Cheriton 


A THROWBACK 69 

seated between Miss Burden and herself was a happy 
augury. 

Hope lent an old-time pungency to what had once 
ranked as the most malicious tongue in London. 

“Upon my word, Caroline,” said the enchanted guest, 
“you are quite at high-water mark this evening.” 

The compliment was perfectly sincere. There can be 
little doubt, all the same, that throughout a rather un¬ 
exhilarating meal my lord was sustained by the hope of 
seeing the peerless Miss Araminta in the drawing-room 
afterwards. In this, however, he was disappointed. The 
tardy minutes passed, but Miss Araminta did not appear. 
At last in desperation he inquired, “Where hides the re¬ 
luctant fair?” 

“Speak English, Cheriton.” 

“The adorable Miss Perry.” 

“The creature is in bed. It is a long journey from 
Slocum Magna for a growing girl.” 

“Is one to understand that she made the entire journey 
in a single day?” 

“In something under twenty-four hours, I believe. 
Express trains travel at such a remarkable rate in these 
days.” 

There was only one thing for Cheriton to do in the 
circumstances. He took his leave. 

En route to the Gaiety Theater, in the privacy of his 
hansom, he ruminated exceedingly. 

“That old woman,” he mused, “has got all the trumps 
in her hand again. A disagreeable old thing, but she 
does know how to play her cards.” 

The stall next to Cheriton’s was in the occupation of 
no less a person than the Duke of Brancaster. 

“Hallo, George, you in London!” 

“Ye-es,” said his Grace heavily. He did not seem 
to be altogether clear upon the point. “The War 


ARAMINTA 


70 

Office people are in their usual mess with the Militia.” 

“But she is at Biarritz.” 

“There is another now,” said George succinctly. 

The noise and flamboyance of the ballet seemed to 
render further conversation undesirable. Cheriton, how¬ 
ever took up the thread at the end of the act. 

“George,” he said solemnly, “like myself you have 
grown old in the love of art.” 

George’s response was of the gruffest. Cheriton was 
going to be a bore as usual. 

“You remember that Gainsborough of Caroline Crew- 
kerne’s?” 

“Ye-es,” said George. “I should like it for my 
collection. I offered her twenty thousand pounds.” 

“Did you though! Well, mind you don’t renew your 
offer. The refusal of that picture was promised me in 
Crewkerne’s lifetime.” 

George began to gobble furiously. He looked as 
though he wanted to call some one a liar. 

“Well, it’s too soon to quarrel over it,” said Cheriton 
pacifically. “She don’t intend to part with it to anybody 
at present.” 

“A perverse old woman and age don’t improve 
her.” 

“I mentioned her Gainsborough,” said Cheriton, who 
was on the rack of his own enthusiasm, “because a very 
odd thing has happened. The original of that picture 
has found her way to Hill Street.” 

“What! Grandmother Dorset!” said the contempt¬ 
uous George. “Why, she’s been in her grave a hundred 
years.” 

“An absolute throwback has turned up at Hill Street. 
If you want to see a living and breathing Gainsborough 
in twentieth-century London call on Caroline Crewkeme 
some wet afternoon.” 


A THROWBACK 


7 i 


George Betterton was not at all aesthetically minded. 
But like so many of his countrymen he always had a taste 
for “something new.” 

“I will,” he said. And he spoke as if he meant it. 

Then it was that Cheriton grew suddenly alive to the 
magnitude of his indiscretion. Really he had acted with 
consummate folly! He had a clear start of all the field, 
yet through an unbridled enthusiasm and a love of im¬ 
parting information, he must needs within an hour set 
one of the most dangerous men in England upon the 
scent. 

His Grace had limitations, but where the other sex 
was concerned he was undoubtedly that, as Cheriton had 
reason to know. A widower of sixty or so, who had 
twice married without obtaining an heir to a great estate, 
there was reason to believe that for a third time he meant 
to beard fortune, although of late, to be sure, his way of 
life had hardly seemed to point in the direction of matri¬ 
mony. But Caroline Crewkerne, who knew everything, 
seemed quite clear upon the point. 

Yes, George Betterton’s “I will” had a sinister sound 
about it. Cheriton himself was a year older than 
George, and a bachelor who in his heart had good reason 
to believe that he was not a marrying man. His position 
in the world had long demanded that he should do his 
duty; but, to the scorn of his family and the amusement 
of his friends, it was unfulfilled as yet. He was too 
fond of adventures, he declared romantically—a confes¬ 
sion that ill became a man old enough to be a grandfather, 
said the truculent Caroline. More than once, it is true, 
Cheriton had feared that he had seen the writing on the 
wall. Closer examination had proved, however, that it 
was intended for some one else! 

He had left Hill Street that evening in such a state of 
emotion that in his present mood he was inclined to be- 


72 


ARAMINTA 


lieve that he had seen the writing again. It was odd, no 
doubt, at his time of life that such a man as himself 
should have such a feeling. But there is no accounting 
for these things. Thus he left the theater with the idea 
rooted in him already that he had been guilty of an act 
of gross folly in exalting the horn so soon. Why play 
Caroline’s game? It should have been left to her to 
summon this second Richmond to the field. 

“Caroline will lead him a dance though,” mused my 
lord on the threshold of Ward’s. “And I know how to 
handle the ribbons better than he does. He’s got the 
head of a rocking-horse.” 

In the meantime the cause of these reflections was 
lying very forlorn and very wide-awake in the most 
imposing room in which she had ever slept. The bed 
was large but cold; the chintz hangings were immaculate 
but unsympathetic; the engravings of classical subjects 
and of august relations whom she had never seen with 
which the walls were hung, the solemn magnificence of 
the furniture and the ornate character of the bric-a-brac, 
made Miss Perry yearn exceedingly for the cheerful 
simplicity of Slocum Magna. 

Almost as far back as Araminta could remember it had 
been her privilege before attempting repose to beat Muffin 
over the head with a pillow. But in this sublime piece 
of upholstery, which apparently had been designed for 
an empress, such friendly happenings were not to be 
thought of. 

However, she had Tobias with her. The wicker bas¬ 
ket was on a small table of Chinese lacquer by her bed; 
and as she lay, with a slow and silent tear squeezing 
itself at recurring intervals out of her blue eyes, her 
right hand dwelt firmly but affectionately on the lid of 
Tobias’s local habitation. That quaint creature, all un¬ 
conscious of the honor done him, was wrapped in slum- 


A THROWBACK 


73 

ber, his ugly brown nose tucked under his lean brown 
paws. 

Thus was Araminta discovered at half-past ten that 
evening when Miss Burden came to say good night. 

“I want to go home to Slocum Magna,” said the visitor 
with a drawl and a sob, whose united effect must have 
been supremely ridiculous but for its pathos. 

Miss Burden had only the consolations of one in¬ 
timately acquainted with pathos to offer. Every night 
for many long and trying years she had longed to go 
home to her own rustic hermitage, which, however, had 
no existence outside her fancy. 

“Dearest Araminta,” said Miss Burden, embracing her 
affectionately, “you will soon get used to the strangeness.” 

“I want to go home to Slocum Magna,” sobbed Miss 
Perry. 

“I am sure you are a good and brave and noble girl,” 
said Miss Burden, who believed profoundly in goodness 
and bravery and nobility. 

“Papa said I was,” sobbed Miss Perry, setting her hand 
more firmly than ever upon the basket of Tobias. 

“To-morrow you will feel happier, Araminta dearest,” 
said Miss Burden, bestowing a final hug upon her. 

Miss Burden was guilty of saying that which she did 
not believe, but perhaps no one will blame her. 


CHAPTER VIII 


“CAROLINE CREWKERNE’S GAINSBOROUGH” 

F ROM the moment that “Caroline Crewkerne’s 
Gainsborough” came upon the town there was no 
denying her success. She was a new sensation; 
and happy in her sponsors, the diminished glories of Hill 
Street emerged from their eclipse. If Lady Crewkerne 
found a grim satisfaction in exploiting the nine days’ 
wonder, Lord Cheriton was one of the proudest men in 
London. He took to himself the whole merit of the 
discovery. 

“I assure you,” he declared to a circle of the elect, 
“that blind old woman would never have seen the likeness. 
It was quite providential that I happened to look in and 
point it out.” 

In matters of art Cheriton had taste. Therefore he 
was sensitive to beauty. Every morning for a week he 
called at Hill Street to envisage his discovery in the full 
light of day. It was in vain, however, that he tried to 
surprise her. She was kept very close. 

For one thing the creature had positively no clothes in 
which to submit to the ordeal of the public gaze. Almost 
the first thing Lady Crewkerne did was to send for her 
dressmaker, who was commanded to make Miss Perry 
“look respectable,” and was given only three days in 
which to perform the operation. 

“I assure your ladyship it is impossible in three days,” 
said the dressmaker. 


74 


CREWKERNE’S GAINSBOROUGH 


75 


“If that is your opinion,” said her ladyship, “I shall 
go elsewhere.” 

As it was Lady Crewkerne’s custom to pay her bills 
quarterly, on the morning of the fourth day Miss Perry 
appeared at breakfast in a suit of blue serge. Rigid in 
outline and formal in cut, it had been chosen by Miss 
Burden, and was wrought in the style affected by that 
model of reticence. 

It was in this attire, surmounted by a straw hat of the 
regulation type in lieu of the inverted vegetable basket, 
that Cheriton saw Miss Perry for the second time. 

“What are you thinking of, Caroline?” he said tragi¬ 
cally. “Where is your instinct? It is an act of van¬ 
dalism to consign a genuine Gainsborough to the tender 
mercies of a woman’s tailor.” 

“Pooh!” said Caroline. 

All the same, Cheriton was roused to action. Next 
day at noon a cab appeared at the door of Caroline’s 
abode. It contained a milliner and twenty-two hats in 
twenty-two boxes. The milliner’s instructions were to 
wait for Lord Cheriton. 

Caroline’s first instinct was to order the milliner off 
the premises. 

“Gross impertinence!” she declared. 

However, the perverse old woman had a liberal share 
of reason. Cheriton had his foibles, but emphatically 
he knew on which side of the bread to look for the butter. 
In all matters relating to this world, from Italian cooks 
to French millinery, wise people respected his judgment. 

At five minutes past noon Cheriton himself came on 
the scene. He was accompanied by an amiable, courteous, 
and distinguished foreigner. 

“Pray, what is the meaning of this?” said Caroline 
with a snort of hostility. 

“This is Monsieur Duprez,” said Cheriton, “the great 


ARAMINTA 


76 

genius who comes to London twice a year from Raquin’s 
at Paris.” 

Monsieur Duprez, overwhelmed by this melodious 
flattery, nearly touched the Persian carpet with his nose. 
Caroline scowled at him. 

“Cheriton,” she demanded, “who has given you author¬ 
ity to turn my house into a dressmaker’s shop?” 

“I have the authority of a pure taste, unvitiated by 
Whig prejudice and Victorian tradition. Miss Burden, 
will you have the great goodness to summon Nature’s 
masterpiece, so that Art, her handmaiden, may make 
an obeisance to her; and might I also suggest that you 
procure Lady Crewkeme’s knitting?” 

Miss Burden, thrilled by the impact of romance, waited 
for permission to obey my lord. 

“I will not have my niece tricked out like a 
play-actress,” said Caroline. “Please understand that 
clearly.” 

Cheriton, feeling the position to be impregnable, was 
as cool as you please. Caroline was so much the slave 
of her worldly wisdom, that in a case of this kind she 
would be compelled to bow the knee to a panel of experts. 
Besides, Cheriton was able to justify himself in the most 
dramatic manner. He pointed histrionically to the world- 
famous Duchess of Dorset. 

“Caroline,” said he, “three experts are present. They 
can be trusted to deal with this matter effectually. In¬ 
deed, I might say four. Miss Burden, I know you to 
be in cordial sympathy with the highest in whatever form 
it may manifest itself. Therefore I entreat you, par¬ 
ticularly as the time of Monsieur Duprez and Madame 
Pelissier belongs not to themselves nor to us but to civil¬ 
ization, to produce our great work of Nature, so that 
Art, her handmaiden, may deck her.” 

Caroline’s upper lip took a double curl, a feat which 


CREWKERNE’S GAINSBOROUGH 


77 

was the outcome of infinite practice in the expression of 
scorn. 

“I hope you will not put ideas into my niece’s head. 
Fortunately, she is such a born simpleton that it is doubt¬ 
ful whether she is capable of retaining any. Miss 
Burden, you may fetch the creature.” 

It was a charming April morning, and sunshine was 
flooding the room. It made a halo for Miss Perry as 
simply and modestly she came in. At once it challenged 
the wonderful yellow mane that was the color of daffodils, 
which on its own part seemed to reciprocate the flashing 
caresses of the light of the morning. The yellow mane 
appeared to grow incandescent and shoot out little lights 
of its own. Very wonderful, too, was the glamour of 
pink and white and azure, as the sunlight toyed with it 
in its own inimitable manner. Here was Juno indeed, 
and none recognized the fact so clearly as the Prince of 
the Morning. 

Monsieur Duprez’ eyes sparkled; Madame Pelissier 
gave a little exclamation. 

“You have here a great subject,” said Lord Cheriton 
to those rare artists. “And there you have the manner 
in which the great Gainsborough treated it.” 

Madame Pelissier disclosed her creations. Hat after 
hat was fitted to the daffodil-colored mane. Cheriton 
hovered round the young goddess, surveying the effect 
from every point of view. His gravity could not have 
been excelled by a minister of State. 

“They must be enormous,” said he with an ever- 
mounting enthusiasm. “They must sit at the perfect 
angle. Their hue must be as the wing of the raven. 
Yes, feathers decidedly. And they must flop like the 
dooce.” 

“Cheriton,” said the warning voice, “don’t be a cox¬ 
comb.” 


7 $ 


ARAMINTA 


“Yes, I like that wicker-work arrangement. The way 
it flops is capital. It will do for week days. But there 
must be one for Sunday mornings in which to go to 
Church.” 

Madame Pelissier was inclined to see an affront in my 
lord’s extreme fastidiousness. There was not a hat in 
the whole collection which had quite got “that,” he de¬ 
clared, snapping his fingers in the manner of Sir Joshua. 

“Madame,” he said solemnly, “pray invoke your genius 
to create a Sunday hat for Juno. You observe what 
Gainsborough did for her great-grandmamma. Mark 
well that masterpiece, chere madame—je prends mon 
bien oil je le trouve*’ 

“Carte blanche, milor?” said Madame Pelissier with a 
little shrug. 

“Absolument” said my lord. “Give a free hand to 
your genius, chere madame. Crown the young goddess 
with the noblest hat that ever consecrated the drab pave¬ 
ments of our metropolis.” 

“I warn you, Cheriton,” said the aunt of the young 
goddess, “I will not have the creature figged out like a 
ballet dancer or a female in a circus.” 

“Peace, Caroline. Your knitting.” He shook an ad¬ 
monitory finger. “Really, you must refrain from Philis¬ 
tine observations in the presence of those who are 
dedicated to the service of Art.” 

Caroline snorted with dynamic energy. 

Monsieur Duprez, crowing with delight, was absorbing 
Gainsborough’s masterpiece. 

“I haf it,” said he, tapping the center of his forehead, 
“ze very ting.” 

“May it prove so, monsieur, for then we shall have 
a nine days’ wonder for the town.” 

Thus it was in the beginning “Caroline Crewkerne’s 
Gainsborough,” as she was so soon to be christened by 


CREWKERNE’S GAINSBOROUGH 


7 9 


the privileged few who write the labels of history, owed 
much to Cheriton’s undoubted talent for stage manage¬ 
ment. 

She really made her debut at St. Sepulchre’s Church 
—in which sacred and fashionable edifice Aunt Caroline 
was an occasional worshiper—and afterwards in Hyde 
Park on the second Sunday morning in May. 

At least a fortnight before the event Cheriton had 
declared his intention to the powers that obtained in Hill 
Street of making Miss Perry known to London on the 
first bright Sunday morning that presented itself. It was 
due to the courtesy of Providence that her church-going 
clothes arrived the evening before the weather; whilst 
but a few hours previously, at the instance of the experts, 
a deft-fingered maid had appeared on the scene, one 
learned in the set of hats and frocks the most marvelous, 
who was a rare artist also in the dressing of the human 
hair. 

Therefore Miss Perry was the innocent cause of some 
excitement when she burst upon an astonished world. 
Marchbanks was the first to behold her, when on this 
historic second Sunday morning in May she quitted the 
privacy of her room becomingly clad to render homage 
to her Maker. He saw her as she came down the 
marble staircase in an enormous black hat with a 
wonderful feather, a miracle of harmonious daring, and 
in a lilac frock, not answering, it is true, in every detail 
to that in which her famous great-grandmamma had been 
painted by Gainsborough, but none the less a thing of 
superlative beauty. However, to judge by the shocked 
stupefaction of the virtuous man who first encountered it, 
this was an achievement not to the taste of everybody. 
In the opinion of Marchbanks it might be magnificent, 
but it was hardly religion. 

By one of those coincidences in which real life indulges 


8 o 


ARAMINTA 


so recklessly, Miss Perry reached the bottom of the stairs 
as Cheriton entered the hall. My lord with mustache 
freshly dyed and locks newly shorn, and wearing light 
gray trousers, lilac gloves, white gaiters and a gardenia 
in his buttonhole, was filled with ecstasy. 

His greeting was almost as melodramatic as his 
appearance. 

“A triumph!” he cried. “My dear young lady—my 
dear Miss Perry—my dear Miss Araminta, the highest 
hopes of a sanguine temperament have been exceeded. 
Art has done her work nobly, but the real triumph, of 
course, belongs to Nature.” 

“Isn’t my frock a nice one?” crowed Miss Perry. 

“Incomparable.” 

“It is almost as nice as the mauve one Muffin had last 
summer but one.” 

Cheriton felt that the speech of Miss Perry was quite 
absurdly suited to her clothes. He led her proudly to 
the morning room. 

“Caroline,” he said, “prepare for the conquest of 
London.” 

That old woman had never looked so fierce. She 
snuffed the air like a lioness. 

“Cease behaving like a fool,” she said to her gentle¬ 
woman, “and have the goodness to get my spectacles.” 

Miss Burden obeyed in a kind of delirium. Lady 
Crewkerne’s scrutiny was severe and prolonged, but there 
was no approbation in it. “An old-fashioned respect 
for my Maker,” said she, “precludes my going to church 
with a tableau vivant.” 

Cheriton scorned her openly. 

“You perverse creature,” he said, “why are you so 
blind? Here is a triumph that will ring through the 
town. Are you prepared to identify yourself with it or 
are you not?” 


CREWKERNE’S GAINSBOROUGH 


81 


Caroline Crewkerne subjected her niece to a second 
prolonged and severe scrutiny. 

“Humph!” was the ungracious verdict. 

However, this was a very shrewd old woman. Fur¬ 
ther, she was a very clear-sighted old woman, who knew 
herself to be what Cheriton did not hesitate to proclaim 
her. She was a Philistine. Upon any matter affecting 
the higher amenities she was far too wise to trust her own 
judgment. Cheriton, on the other hand, in spite of an 
inclination towards the bizarre and the freakish, she 
allowed to have taste. 

“I shall go to church,” she announced. 

It was as if she were flinging down a gauntlet. 

The Church of Saint Sepulchre, as the elect do not 
need to be told, is quite near to Hill Street. Lady Crew¬ 
kerne was ready to start ten minutes before the service 
began. 

“Easy, Caroline,” said Cheriton, studying his watch 
reflectively; “there is no hurry.” 

“Even if one is to be bored,” said Caroline, “it is good 
manners to be punctual.” 

Cheriton, however, seemed determined that the service 
should begin without him. He loitered and loitered upon 
the most absurb pretexts. And just as the procession 
was about to start from Caroline’s door he mislaid his 
umbrella. 


CHAPTER IX 


IN WHICH CHERITON DROPS HIS UMBRELLA 

N r EVER mind your umbrella,” said Caroline 
tartly. 

“I must mind my umbrella,” said Cheriton 
plaintively. “If one goes to church in London in the 
middle of the season without one’s umbrella one is bound 
to be taken for an agnostic.” 

“John,” her ladyship demanded, “what have you done 
with his lordship’s umbrella?” 

“You placed it here, my lord,” said John, indicating 
an umbrella with an ivory handle and a gold band. 

“Nonsense!” said Cheriton. “I don’t own an um¬ 
brella with an ivory handle.” 

John looked at the gold band, and imperturbably 
assured his lordship that his name was upon it. 

“It is the name of my father. How the dooce did an 
umbrella with an ivory handle come into the possession 
of my father!” 

The clock in the hall slowly chimed eleven. They set 
out for St. Sepulchre’s with the redoubtable Caroline in 
a decidedly unchristian temper, with Miss Burden pro¬ 
foundly uncomfortable, and Miss Perry innocently ab¬ 
sorbed in her new frock and preoccupied with a modest 
hope that the passers-by would notice it; whilst Cheriton 
walked by her side apparently without a thought in his 
head save the ethical significance of an ivory-handled 
umbrella. 

“I remember now, my dear Araminta. It was given 

82 




CHERITON DROPS HIS UMBRELLA 83 

to my grandfather of pious memory as a token of esteem 
by that singularly constituted monarch George the 
Fourth.” 

“I am sure that it must be almost as nice as Muffin's 
was,” said Miss Perry. “That old gentleman with the 
white mustache turned round to look at it.” 

“Did he?” Cheriton fixed his eyeglass truculently. 

“Muffin’s was mauve,” said Miss Perry. “But I think 
lilac is almost as nice, don’t you?” 

“It is all a matter of taste, my dear Miss Araminta. 
Fancy one entering a church in the West End of London 
with an umbrella with an ivory handle!” 

“Why shouldn’t one, pray?” snorted Caroline from the 
depths of her Bath chair. 

“My dear Caroline, it looks so worldly.” 

“Humph!” said Caroline. 

When the procession reached the outer precincts of 
Saint Sepulchre’s its ear was smitten by the sound of a 
thousand fervent voices uplifted in adulation of their 
Creator. 

“There, Cheriton,” said Caroline, “now you are satis¬ 
fied. We are late.” 

This fact, however, did not seem to perturb Cheriton 
as much as it ought to have done. He even deprecated 
the alacrity with which Caroline left her Bath chair and 
the determined manner in which she prepared to lead the 
way into the sacred edifice. 

“Easy, Caroline,” said he. “Let ’em get fairly on 
to their legs.” 

As the procession filed very slowly down the central 
aisle with the fervent voices still upraised and the organ 
loudly pealing, more than one pair of eyes took their fill 
of it. There was hardly a worshiper within those four 
walls who did not know who the old woman was with the 
hawklike features and the ebony walking stick. Nor 


8 4 


ARAMINTA 


were they at a loss for the identity of the distinguished if 
slightly overdressed personage who came in her train. 
Moreover, the wonderful creature in the picture hat and 
the lilac frock did not fail to inspire their curiosity. 

Caroline Crewkeme’s pew was at the far end of the 
church, next but two to the chancel. Her entourage had 
reached the middle of the aisle when there came a brief 
lull in the proceedings. The organ was muffled in a 
passage of peculiar solemnity, the fervor of the voices 
was subdued in harmony; there was scarcely a sound to 
be heard, when Cheriton had the misfortune to drop his 
umbrella. 

The sound of the ivory knob meeting cold marble at a 
moment so solemn was quite dramatic. There was not 
a soul within those precincts who could fail to hear the 
impact of the ill-fate umbrella. For the umbrella was 
indeed ill-fated. Upon the marble, in three pieces, lay 
the ivory handle. Almost every eye in the church seemed 
to be fixed upon the owner of the umbrella. A wave of 
indignation appeared to pass over the congregation. Not 
only did the owner of the umbrella come late to church, 
but he must needs imperil the sanctity of the occasion by 
mundanely dropping his umbrella with extraordinary 
violence and publicity. 

Here, however, was not the end of the matter. With a 
naturalness so absolute did the Amazon with the daffodil- 
colored mane and the amazing clothes stoop to assist her 
cavalier to retrieve the fragments of the shattered um¬ 
brella, that it seemed to the scandalized witnesses that she 
had mistaken the central aisle of Saint Sepulchre’s at 
11.15 a . m . on the second Sunday of May for the middle 
of Exmoor. 

Caroline Crewkerne and her gentlewoman had been 
kneeling devoutly upon their hassocks at least two min¬ 
utes by the time Cheriton and Miss Perry arrived at the 


CHERITON DROPS HIS UMBRELLA 85 

pew second from the chancel. Cheriton bore in his right 
hand a fragment of ivory; in his left the decapitated body 
of his umbrella. Somehow his look of rue did not seem 
quite so sincere as the circumstances and the surroundings 
warranted. In the right hand of Miss Perry was a 
Prayer Book, in the left two fragments of ivory. The 
gravity of her demeanor was enough to propitiate the 
most sensitive beholder. 

After the service, as Caroline Crewkerne’s party was 
moving out of the church, it was joined by no less a 
person than George Betterton. Like Caroline herself, 
he was an infrequent worshiper at Saint Sepulchre’s. 

“Hallo, George!” was Cheriton’s greeting. “What 
has brought you to church?” 

Cheriton was not sincere in his inquiry. He knew 
perfectly well what had brought George to church. The 
responsibility for his appearance there was his entirely. 

“The weather,” was George’s solemn reply. “Fine 
mornin’ to hear a good sermon.” 

“I don’t approve of candles on the altar,” said Caroline 
Crewkerne in a voice for all the world to heed. “Far too 
many Roman practices have crept into the service lately.” 

“Quite right, Caroline,” agreed Cheriton. “That is 
my own opinion. I intend to lodge a complaint with the 
Vicar.” 

“How are you, Caroline ?” said George with affability. 
“It is a great pleasure to see you at church.” 

“It is a pleasure you might afford yourself oftener,” 
said Caroline grimly. 

George cast an envious eye to the front. Cheriton, 
walking with the lilac frock and the picture hat ten paces 
ahead of the Bath chair, appeared to be coming in for 
a good deal of public attention. 

“What’s it feel like, Caroline,” said George Betterton, 
“to go to church with Grandmother Dorset?” 


86 


ARAMINTA 


“You mean my niece, Miss Perry, I presume?” was 
the “stuffy” reply. 

“Perry, eh? A girl of Polly’s?” 

“Don’t you see the likeness?” said Caroline with a 
little snort. 

“No, I don’t. She resembles Polly about as much as 
Cheriton resembles a Christian.” 

“There I agree with you, George.” 

“Reminds me of what you were in the fifties, Caroline.” 
Obviously George was trying to be agreeable. 

The recipient, however, seemed a little doubtful of the 
compliment. 

“Gal’s on the big side. A reg’lar bouncer, but, by gad, 
she carries her clothes like Grandmother Dorset.” 

“It’s a great responsibility,” said Caroline, “for one 
of my age to have a creature like that to look after.” 

“Money?” 

“Not a sou.” 

George thought it a pity. “Fine-lookin’ gal though. 
Cheriton seems to think so anyway.” 

The hiatus between the Bath chair and the first pair 
in the procession had now been increased to twenty paces. 

“Cheriton,” called her ladyship, “this is not a coursing 
match.” 

My lord checked politely to await the arrival of the 
powers. 

“Dear me,” he said, “are we walking quickly? Miss 
Araminta moves like a Naiad in her own West-country.” 

“Girl,” said Aunt Caroline, “pray remember that you 
are now in Hyde Park, not in a Devonshire lane.” 

“You come from Devon,” said his Grace, addressing 
Miss Perry with an air of remarkable benevolence, 
“where the cream comes from, eh?” 

To assert positively that Miss Perry made a gesture of 
licking her lips in a feline manner will surely incur a 


CHERITON DROPS HIS UMBRELLA 87 


tornado of feminine criticism. For no true lady could be 
guilty of such an act walking on a Sunday morning in 
Hyde Park with the highest branch of the peerage. All 
the same, it looked uncommonly like it. 

“They promised to send me some from Slocum 
Magna,” she said wistfully, “but it hasn’t come yet.” 

“Shame!” said his Grace with feeling. “I’ll nip round 
to Gunter’s first thing to-morrer and order a pot.” 

“Oh, thank you ever so much,” cooed Miss Perry. 

“Pray don’t mention it, my dear Miss-,” said the 

Duke with a somewhat heavy yet by no means unsuccess¬ 
ful air. 

“My name is Araminta”—Miss Perry drawled her 
usual formula—“but they call me Goose because I am 
rather a sil-lay.” 

“Call you Goose, eh? Charmin’ name. I’ll call you 
Goose myself if you’ve no objection.” 

“Oh do, please,” said Miss Perry, “then I shall know 
we are friends.” 

“Shall I tell you, Miss Goose, what they call me?” 

“Oh do, please ” 

“They call me Gobo, because they say I gobble like a 
turkey.” 

“What a splendid name!” cried Miss Perry. “I shall 
write to tell Muffin about it.” 

The Amazon’s clear peal of laughter seemed to excite 
the curiosity of a section of the British public which 
occupied the chairs along the path. Certainly it eyed 
the slow-moving procession very intently indeed. 

“My aunt, here comes a stepper!” said the proprietor 
of cool but youthful tones, removing a silver knobbed 
stick from his mouth. “What price the old sportsman 
with her?” 

“Ssssh, Archibald!” said a sibilant whisper; “that’s 
the Duke of Brancaster.” 



88 


ARAMINTA 


“A lucky old perisher,” said the voice of youth. “But 
if I was that gal I wouldn’t walk in the Park with a chap 
who has a face like an over-ripe tomato and who gobbles 
like a turkey.” 

“Ssssh, Archibald, dearest!” 

The procession was now almost alongside the youthful 
critic. Miss Perry, a positive queen challenging the May 
morning in its glamour and its freshness, and her chin 
at a rather proud angle, for she could not help rejoicing 
simply and sincerely in the attention that was paid to her 
new frock, was flanked on the one hand by my lord, on 
the other by his Grace. Ten paces in the rear came the 
Bath chair with its hawklike occupant. Beside it was 
Miss Burden with Ponto on a lead. 

“I tell you what,” said the voice of youth, “if those two 
old bucks are not ridin’ jealous they will be jolly soon.” 

“If you call me Goose”—the ludicrous drawl was 
borne on the zephyrs of spring—“I may call you Gobo, 
may I not?” 

At this moment a voice issued from the Bath chair. 

“George,” it said, “have you noticed the tulips?” 

“No,” said George, “where are they?” 

His Grace gazed down at his feet to see if he had 
trodden upon them. 

“Miss Burden, take the Dook across the road to look 
at the tulips.” 

Reluctantly, perhaps, his Grace allowed himself to be 
piloted by Ponto and the faithful gentlewoman towards 
these choice specimens of British horticulture. 

“Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne, “to-morrow you 
must take my niece to view the pictures in the National 
Gallery.” 

“That will be too sweet,” cried Miss Perry. 

Cheriton bestowed upon his old friend and adversary 
a look of wariness tempered with gratitude. 



CHAPTER X 


JIM LASCELLES MAKES HIS APPEARANCE 


M ISS ARAMINTA PERRY, Hill Street, 
Mayfair, London, W., to Miss Elizabeth 
Perry, The Vicarage, Slocum Magna, North 

Devon. 

Dearest Muffin,— London is a much larger place 
than Slocum Magna, but I don’t think it is nearly so nice. 
If I had not got Tobias with me, I think sometimes I 
might be very miserable. 

First I will tell you about my new frock. It is a lilac 
one, and has been copied from a famous picture of Great 
Grandmamma Dorset by a painter named Gainsborough 
—I mean that Gainsborough copied Great Grandmamma 
Dorset, not that he made my frock. Madame Pelissier 
made my frock. It is not quite so nice as your mauve 
was, but it is much admired by nearly everybody in 
London. When I walk out in it people often turn round 
to look. 

I think the people here are sometimes rather rude, but 
Lord Cheriton says I am not to mind, as people are like 
that in London. Lord Cheriton is a Sweet. Aunt Caro¬ 
line says he is much older than he looks, but Miss Burden 
doesn’t think so. Aunt Caroline is always right in every¬ 
thing, but Miss Burden is just too sweet. She is very 
good to Tobias, and comes to my room every night to 
see if I am miserable. Aunt Caroline thinks she is too 
romantic. She had a love affair when she was younger. 

89 




90 


ARAMINTA 


Lord Cheriton says I must be careful that I don’t have 
one as they are so bad for the complexion. He says 
there is not a man in London who can be trusted. Oldish 
men, particularly if they have been married twice, are 
very dangerous, he says. As Dearest Papa is not here 
to advise me, Lord Cheriton acts as he thinks Dearest 
Papa would like him to. He goes with me everywhere 
to see that I come to no harm. Isn’t it dear of him? 

Yesterday afternoon Lord Cheriton took me to the 
Zoological Gardens to see the elephants. Aunt Caroline 
thought we should find so many things in common. I 
know we had one thing in common. We are both very 
fond of cream buns. I had four and one of the elephants 
had five. But Lord Cheriton says that elephants are so 
big you can’t call them greedy. We also saw the bears. 
They each had a cream bun apiece. Lord Cheriton says 
each of them would have eaten another, but he thought 
it hardly right to encourage them. 

Lord Cheriton is a very high-principled man. He says 
I am to be most careful of a perfectly charming old 
gentleman who calls most days to see Aunt Caroline. 
I call him Gobo because he gobbles like a turkey, and 
he calls me Goose, because I am rather a silly. He is a 
Duke really. Lord Cheriton doesn’t seem to trust him. 
He says it is because of his past life. I heard Lord 
Cheriton tell Aunt Caroline that she ought not to en¬ 
courage the old reprobate with me in the house. It is 
rather dreadful that he should be like that, because he is 
such a dear, although his face is so red and he gobbles 
like anything. He—Gobo—is going to give me a riding 
horse so that we shall be able to ride in Rotten Row 
together every morning as it is so good for the health. 
He says my horse will be quite as nice as Squire Lascelles’ 
pedigree hunter. I don’t think Lord Cheriton approves 
of it. He thinks Dearest Papa would not like me to be 


JIM LASCELLES 


9i 


seen much in public with a man who has no principles. 

Miss Burden thinks so too. But she agrees with Lord 
Cheriton in everything, because she considers he is the 
most perfect man she has ever met. Miss Burden says 
his ideals are so lofty, but Aunt Caroline says that all 
men and most women are vain, worldly and self-seeking. 
I wish Aunt Caroline could meet Dearest Papa. And 
you too, Muffin dearest. But I do think Lord Cheriton is 
a Sweet. He took so much trouble over my lilac frock 
and my new hat, which I don’t think I like because it 
makes people stare so; and he is so careful I should come 
to no harm, and always tries to act just as he thinks 
Dearest Papa would like him to. I am sure Aunt Caro¬ 
line is mistaken. Lord Cheriton thinks the people in 
London are so cynical; there is something in the atmos¬ 
phere of London, he says, that turns the milk of human 
kindness sour. Isn’t it dreadful? I am so glad we 
haven’t that kind of atmosphere at Slocum Magna, Muffin 
dearest. 

Lord Cheriton is frightfully clever. Some of the 
words he uses are quite as difficult as Dearest Papa’s. He 
says I am a Throwback. I can’t find out what it means. 
He says it is a dictionary word, yet I can’t find it in Aunt 
Caroline’s dictionary. Aunt Caroline says I am too in¬ 
quisitive. Please ask Dearest Papa. He will know for 
certain. 

Lord C. is very good at poetry. He says it is because 
he went to the same school as Lord Byron. He has 
written what he calls an Ode to a Lilac Frock. It begins 
like this:— 

“Youth is so fair that the Morning’s smile, 

Is touched with the glamour of a pure delight.” 

1 cannot remember any more, and Aunt Caroline burnt 


92 


ARAMINTA 


the copy he gave me herself personally. She said he was 
old enough to know better. But I think it is awfully 
clever of him, don’t you, Muffin dearest? Miss Burden 
was very miserable about the ode—I mean about Aunt 
Caroline burning it. She scorched her fingers in trying 
to rescue it from the flames. She has a new lilac frock, 
because Lord Cheriton admires them so much. I think 
she looks Too Dear in it, but Aunt Caroline says she 
would look a frump in anything. Aunt Caroline always 
says what she means, but I don’t think she always means 
what she says. When Tobias, poor darling, escaped from 
his basket and hid behind the drawing-room curtains she 
said some dreadful things. 

Aunt C. says if I behave myself I am to go to Bucking¬ 
ham Palace to see the Queen. If I do go I am to have 
another new frock, although I am sure I shall never get 
one half so nice as my lilac. I do wish I could go in 
that. I am sure the Queen would like it; but when I 
said so to Aunt Caroline she told me to hold my tongue. 
The frock I am going to see the Queen in is all white, 
which Lord Cheriton says is his favorite color because 
it is the emblem of innocence. 

I have not had one game of hockey since I came to 
London. Lord C. says they only play hockey in London 
when the Thames is frozen over, which happens only 
once in a blue moon. I do call that silly, don’t you, 
Muffin dearest, when we have a mixed match at Slocum 
Magna every Wednesday all through the winter. 

Last night I went to a party in my new evening frock. 
Everybody liked it—at least they said they did. One or 
two young men told me they admired it immensely. 
Wasn’t it dear of them? Lord C. and Gobo were there. 
They didn’t think it a bit too low. I am so pleased. I 
wish, Muffin dearest, that you and Polly and Milly had 
one like it, because it is awfully expensive. And what 


JIM LASCELLES 


93 


do you think ? Aunt Caroline has given me a pearl neck¬ 
lace which once belonged to Great Grandmamma Dorset 
to wear with it. 

Next Wednesday fortnight Aunt Caroline is going to 
give a dance for me. It was Lord Cheriton who per¬ 
suaded her, and he is arranging everything. But they 
cannot agree about the champagne for supper. Aunt 
Caroline says that claret cup was considered good enough 
when she came out. Lord Cheriton says that civilization 
has advanced since those days. 

Then, too, Muffin dearest, I must tell you that Aunt 
Caroline and Lord C. have almost quarreled over Gobo. 
Lord C. says the harmless old dear must not be invited on 
any account. He says that if Gobo comes to the dance 
he will abuse the wine, yet drink more of it than is good 
for him, and that he will play bridge all the evening and 
be a nuisance to everybody. I suppose Lord Cheriton 
will have to have his way, because he is acting as a sort 
of deputy to Dearest Papa. He has already kissed me 
several times “paternally/’ which is really too sweet of 
him; and every day he warns me to beware of Gobo and 
to be very careful that he does not go too far. 

This is all this time, Muffin dearest. I send heaps and 
heaps of love and kisses to you and Polly and Milly and 
Dickie and Charley and poor old Doggo; and to Dearest 
Papa I send twelve extra special kisses. I remain always 
your most affectionate sister, 

Goose. 

P.S.—Tobias sends fondest love. 

It will be seen from this letter that although the con¬ 
quest of London by the lilac frock and the daffodil- 
colored mane proceeded apace, all was not harmony in 
Hill Street, Mayfair. To Cheriton’s stage management 
much of the triumph was due, but unfortunately he was 


ARAMINTA 


94 

the last man in the world to underrate his own achieve¬ 
ment. 

“Feller can’t carry corn,” was the trite manner in which 
George Betterton summed up the situation. 

No two persons knew Caroline Crewkerne quite so well 
as these old cronies. And no one save Caroline Crew¬ 
kerne knew them quite so well as they knew each other. 
A very experienced hand was called for to hold the balance 
true. And in that worldly-wise old woman one was 
undoubtedly forthcoming. 

Well it was so. For it was wonderful how soon 
it was bruited abroad that two Richmonds had 
already entered the field. Both were men of position 
and more popular in the parish of Saint James than 
in Caroline’s opinion they ought to have been. She 
knew them far too well to have any illusions about 
them. 

Caroline’s opinion, however, did not prevent their 
entrances and exits in Hill Street at all hours of the day 
and of the evening soon becoming a subject of comment. 
Moreover, the gods were watching them. And after the 
ancient manner, they promptly inserted a bee in Cheriton’s 
cool and sagacious bonnet. 

“My dear Caroline,” he announced one morning, “do 
you know I have taken a fancy to having a copy of Grand¬ 
mother Dorset made for the little gallery at Cheriton 
House.” 

“Humph!” said Caroline ungraciously. 

“Don’t say 'Humph!’ Caroline. It makes you look 
so plain.” 

“I have never allowed that picture to leave my drawing¬ 
room for public exhibition or for any other purpose, and 
I don’t see why I should do so now.” 

“There is no need for it to leave your drawing-room,” 
said Cheriton persuasively. “A man can come here to 


JIM LASCELLES 


95 

copy it if you will grant him the use of the place of a 
morning.’’ 

“I fail to see why my drawing-room should be turned 
into a painter’s studio.” 

“It is quite a simple matter,” Cheriton explained. “A 
curtain can be rigged up and drawn across the canvas 
and you won’t know it’s there.” 

Caroline yielded with reluctance. 

“There is a young fellow of the name of Lascelles, 
whom I believe to be competent to make a passable copy.” 

“A Royal Academician?” 

“God bless me, no!” 

“I cannot see why I should grant the use of my draw¬ 
ing-room to a person who is not a member of the Royal 
Academy. And what an inferior copy by some wretched 
dauber will profit you, one cannot imagine.” 

“I am afraid,” said Cheriton with an air of one im¬ 
parting a state secret, “I am going Gainsborough mad. 
If at present I can’t have Grandmother Dorset for 
Cheriton House, I intend having something as like her 
as I can get. And, in my opinion, this young fellow 
Lascelles is the very man to make a copy of the peerless 
original. He is a fine draughtsman, his sense of color 
is highly trained, and, like myself, he is a Gainsborough 
enthusiast.” 

One fine spring morning James Lascelles, without 
further preface, found his way to Hill Street, Mayfair. 
He was armed with the tools of his craft and with a 
great canvas some eighty-four inches by fifty. 

Jim Lascelles was a hearty young fellow, six feet high, 
and a superb specimen of British manhood. Why a man 
of Cheriton’s penetration, armed with such a sound work¬ 
ing knowledge of things as they are, should have walked 
so blindly into the trap that had been set for him is a 
matter upon which no amount of speculation can avail. 


96 


ARAMINTA 


Doubtless he felt that one so obscure as Jim, who was 
as poor as a mouse, and in no way immodest in his ideas, 
could be trusted with such a commission. And doubtless 
he could have been had they played the game in Another 
Place. A mortal as wise as my lord should have known 
that sometimes they don’t. 

All that Cheriton condescended to know on the subject 
was that Jim Lascelles “hadn’t a bob in the world,” and 
that he was good to his mother. He may even have been 
dimly aware that the mother of Jim, by a process of 
reasoning peculiar to her kind, felt that Jim was bound 
to turn out a great genius. And he may have had a 
suspicion that on this naive pretext she had contrived 
enough from her very modest pittance to give Jim three 
years’ training in Paris in the studio of the renowned 
Monsieur Gillet. But there is no reason to believe that 
Lord Cheriton had any special faith in Jim or in his 
genius. He merely believed that he could entrust a small 
commission with profit to both parties, to a modest, 
sound-hearted, pleasantly mediocre young fellow. 

At the hour Jim Lascelles made his first appearance in 
Hill Street he may have been hardly more than that. 
Sometimes, it is true, he was troubled with visions of 
coming greatness. But he never mentioned them to any¬ 
body, because in his own well-balanced mind he was sure 
they were due to having supped later than usual. The 
future worried him but little. Working steadily on, 
striving to pay his way, he hardly expected to see his 
“stuff” on the line in the long room at Burlington House, 
but he did hope the time would come when he would be 
able to sell it more easily and get better prices from the 
dealers. 

If he could go once in three years to Kennington Oval 
to see Surrey play the Australians and he could afford a 
couple of tickets annually for the Chelsea Arts Club Fancy 


JIM LASCELLES 


97 


Ball, and his funds allowed him occasionally to take his 
mother to the dress circle of a suburban theater to see 
a cheerful play, and he was always able to buy as much 
tobacco as he wanted, he didn’t mind much that he worked 
very hard to earn very little. He argued that a good 
many chaps were worse off than Jim Lascelles. He had 
splendid health and he had a splendid mother. 

No sooner had John received Mr. Lascelles on this 
memorable forenoon and the mighty canvas that accom¬ 
panied him, which was in the care of two stalwart sons 
of labor, than the fun began. In the first place, it was 
only with infinite contrivance that the canvas was 
squeezed through the door of the blue drawing-room, 
which happily was part and parcel of a spacious and lofty 
Georgian interior. Nevertheless, a sacrifice of white 
paint was involved in the process. 

However, Jim Lascelles showed not the least dis¬ 
position to be overawed by his surroundings. 

“A shocking bad light, v he said, surveying the aristo¬ 
cratic gloom of the blue drawing-room with something 
of a proprietary air. “Better stick it there." 

John, not without hauteur, superintended the placing 
of the unwieldy canvas in the place indicated by the artist. 
It involved the moving of a sofa six yards to the left. 
To do this, in the sight of John, almost required a special 
Act of Parliament. It was certainly necessary to get the 
authority of the butler before it could be moved an inch. 
Jim, however, a young fellow who generally managed 
to get his own way, cheerfully shifted the sofa himself 
while John was seeking the permission of his chief. 
When John returned the two stalwart sons of labor were 
performing their final duties. He had, therefore, to be 
content with a stem admonition as to where they put 
their feet while they fixed up the canvas. 

Jim Lascelles was not given to unbridled enthusiasms, 


9 8 


ARAMINTA 


but the discovery of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by 
Gainsborough, moved him considerably. 

“Ye gods! it is a crime to keep the heritage of the 
nation in a light like this.” He turned to John, who 
stood the incarnation of outraged dignity. “I say,” said 
he, “can’t you draw those blinds higher.” 

“No, sir,” was the supercilious answer, “not without 
her ladyship’s permission.” 

“Where is her ladyship? Perhaps I might see her.” 

“Her ladyship is not at home, sir.” 

“Well, those blinds will undoubtedly have to go up 
higher.” 

Thereupon Jim Lascelles walked up to the window, 
unloosed the cords, and hauled up the Venetian blinds as 
far as they would go. Various additional beams of the 
May sunshine rewarded him. 

“Now,” said he, “perhaps we shall be able to get some 
sort of an idea of Gainsborough at his best.” 

It is open to doubt whether John had a feeling for art. 
At least he showed no desire to obtain an idea of Gains¬ 
borough at his best. He merely turned his back upon 
Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, and incidentally upon Jim 
Lascelles, and proceeded haughtily to shepherd the two 
sons of labor into the street. 

The feat accomplished, John made a formal complaint 
to his official superior. 

“That painting feller,” said he, “goes on as if the place 
belonged to him. I don’t know what her ladyship’ll say, 
I’m sure.” 

“John,” said the pillar of the Whigs impressively, “if 
the education of the masses does not prove the ruin of 
this country, Henry Marchbanks is not my name.” 

Miss Perry, in her second best frock, the modest blue 
serge, was descending the stairs. 

“Has the painting man come yet?” she inquired. 


JIM LASCELLES 


99 

“Yes, miss, he has,” said John with venom and with 
brevity. 

“Do you think I might go in and peep at him?” she 
said in her ludicrous way. “I should so like to see a 
real painting man, painting a real picture with paints.” 

“If you obtained her ladyship’s permission, miss, I dare 
say you may do so,” said Marchbanks cautiously. 

Miss Perry, however, when her curiosity was fully 
aroused, was quite capable of displaying a mind of her 
own. She entered the blue drawing-room noiselessly. 
There was the painting man with his hands in his pockets. 
Standing with his back to the door by which she had 
entered, he was entirely lost in contemplation of the 
masterpiece he had been commissioned to copy. 

“Marvelous!” he could be heard to exclaim at little 
intervals under his breath, “marvelous!” 

His examination of Gainsborough’s masterpiece was 
terminated long before it otherwise would have been by 
the intervention of a positive crow of human delight. 

“Why, it’s Jim! It’s Jim Lascelles!” 

Jim Lascelles turned about with a look of wonder upon 
his expressive countenance. At first he said never a 
word; but suddenly he placed both hands upon the 
Amazonian shoulders of Miss Perry and gave her a shak¬ 
ing of affectionate incredulity. 

“It is the Goose Girl!” he cried. “Heavens and 
ministers of grace!” 

Miss Perry was guilty of a second crow of human 
delight. 

“Why, Jim, you’ve got a mustache!” 

“The Goose Girl,” cried Jim, “in the blessed old town 
of London.” 

“I’ve been in London three weeks,” said Miss Perry 
importantly. 

“I’ve been in London five years,” said Jim Lascelles 


> d a 
) i 


> 3 j 


100 


ARAMINTA 


sadly. “What a great overgrown thing! You are taller 
than I am.” 

“Oh no,” said Miss Perry, “I am only six feet.” 

Jim Lascelles declined to be convinced that such was 
the case until they had stood back to back to take a 
measurement. 

“You’re an absolute what-do-you-call-’em!” he said. 
“Are you as fond of apples and bread and jam and old 
boots as you used to be? Or let me see, was it Doggo 
who used to eat old boots in his youth?” 

“I never ate old boots, Jim,” said Miss Perry with a 
great air of conviction. 

“Yes, I remember now. Old boots and kitchen chairs 
were the only things you didn’t eat. Your weakness for 
apples has cost me many a licking.” 

“Has it, Jim?” The mobile lips of Miss Perry 
suffered an unmistakable twitch. “Have you ever tasted 
cream buns, Jim?” she asked wistfully. 

“No, you sybarite. We don’t get those refinements in 
the suburb of Laxton. But tell me, how is Muffin, and 
Polly and Milly, and Dickey and Charley and all the rest 
of the barbarian horde? And what is the Goose Girl 
doing so far away from Slocum Magna? How has she 
found her way into this superlative neighborhood?” 
The eye of Jim Lascelles was arrested by Miss Perry’s 
formal blue serge. “Governess, eh? How odd that the 
Goose Girl with the brains of a bumble bee should blos¬ 
som out into a real live governess!” 

“Oh no, Jim. Didn’t you know? I have come to 
live with Aunt Caroline.” 

“Aunt who?” 

“Aunt Caroline,” said Miss Perry. 

“She must be one of the grand relations the girl Polly 
used to boast about, that would never have nothing to 
do with the family of Slocum Magna.” 


JIM LASCELLES 


IOI 


It is to be hoped that neither Aunt Caroline nor Ponto 
overheard Jim’s remarks; it is a fair presumption, in fact, 
that they did not, otherwise this history must have ended 
almost before it began. For this was the indubitable 
moment chosen by Ponto and his mistress to enter the 
blue drawing-room. The instant Jim Lascelles caught 
sight of the headdress, the black silk, the ebony walking 
stick, and the obese quadruped with gargoyle eyes, he 
checked his discourse and bowed in a becoming manner. 

“Aunt Caroline,” said Miss Perry with a presence of 
mind which did her the highest credit, “this is Mr. 
Lascelles, who has come to paint the picture.” 

The old lady put on her spectacles with polar coolness. 

“So I perceive,” she said. 

She looked Jim over as if he himself were a master¬ 
piece by Gainsborough, and without making any comment 
she and Ponto withdrew from the blue drawing-room. 

“A singularly disagreeable old woman,” said Jim, who 
had the habit of speaking his mind freely on all occasions. 

“Aunt Caroline is rather reserved with strangers,” said 
Miss Perry, “but she is a dear really.” 

“She is not a dear at all, and she’s not a bit like one. 
She is just a proud, disagreeable and unmannerly old 
woman.” 

Miss Perry looked genuinely concerned. For Jim was 
hurt, and she felt herself to be personally responsible for 
Aunt Caroline. However, there was one resource left 
for the hour of affliction. 

“Would you like to see Tobias? I’ve got him with 
me. I will fetch the sweet.” 

“What, is that ferret still alive? My hat!” And 
then as Miss Perry moved to the drawing-room door, 
said Jim, “Oh no, you don’t. Come back and sit there 
on the sofa if it is quite up to your weight, and I will 
show you how to paint a picture.” 


102 


ARAMINTA 


“Will you, Jim!” Miss Perry returned obediently. 
“Do you remember teaching me how to draw cows?” 

“Yes, I do. You could draw a cow with anybody, and 
that’s the only thing you could do except handle a ferret 
and eat bread and jam.” 

Miss Perry sat in the middle of the sofa. By force 
of habit she assumed her most characteristic pose. 

“There was also one other thing you could do,” said 
Jim Lascelles. “When you were not actually engaged 
in eating bread and jam you could always sit hours on 
end with your finger in your mouth thinking how you 
were going to eat it.” 

Jim took up his charcoal. 

“Goose Girl,” he said, “it’s the oddest thing out. 
Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, had the habit of sticking 
her paw in her mouth. And I’ll take my Davy her 
thoughts were of bread and jam.” 

“Cream buns are ever so much nicer,” Miss Perry 
sighed gently. 

“You have grown a terrible sybarite since you came 
to London. Nobody ever suspected the existence of 
cream buns at Slocum Magna.” 

Suddenly, without any sort of warning, an idea flashed 
through the mind of James Lascelles; and this, by some 
occult means, conferred the look upon him that gets 
people into encyclopedias. 

“Don’t move, Goose Girl. Do you know who has 
painted that hair of yours?” 

“I don’t think it has been painted,” said Miss Perry. 

“That is all you know. Your hair has been painted 
by the light of the morning.” 

Jim Lascelles laid down his charcoal and took up the 
"brush that on a day was to make him famous. He dipped 
it in bright yellow pigment; and although, as all the world 
knows, the hair of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, is un- 


JIM LASCELLES 


103 


mistakably auburn, Jim began by flinging a splotch of 
yellow upon the canvas. 

“Goose Girl,” said Jim with an expression of joy on 
his face that made him look preposterously handsome, 
“I have felt sometimes that if it should ever be my luck 
to happen upon a great subject I might turn out a painter.” 

“Your mamma always said you would,” said Miss 
Perry. 

“And your papa always said you would marry an earl.” 

Quite suddenly the blue drawing-room vibrated with 
a note of triumph. “Oh, Jim, Eve almost forgotten to 
tell you about my lilac frock.” 

“Have you a lilac frock?” 

“You remember the mauve one that Muffin had?” said 
Miss Perry breathlessly. 

“After my time,” said Jim Lascelles. “But I pity a 
mauve frock on the back of the Ragamuffin.” 

“It was too—too sweet,” said Miss Perry. “And my 
lilac is almost as nice as Muffin’s mauve.” 

“Put it on to-morrow,” said Jim. “Then Fll be able 
to see for myself. Now, don’t move the Goose Piece, 
you silly. The light of the morning strikes it featly. 
I doubt whether this yellow be bright enough.” 

“Jim,” said Miss Perry, “to-morrow I’ll show you my 
new hat.” 

“Stick your paw in your mouth. And don’t dare to 
take it out until you are told to. And keep the Goose 
Piece just where it be. Think of cream buns.” 

“They are awfully nice,” said Miss Perry. 

Jim dabbed another fearsome splotch of yellow upon 
the great canvas. 

“Monsieur Gillet would give his great French soul,” 
he said softly, “for the hair of the foolish Goose Girl 
whose soul is composed of cream buns. Ye gods!” 

Why the young fellow should be guilty of that irrel- 



104 


ARAMINTA 


evant exclamation who shall say? Perhaps he fancied 
that he heard the first faint crackle of the immortal 
laughter. Well, well! we are but mortal, and who but 
the gods have made us so? 


CHAPTER XI 


MISS PERRY IS THE SOUL OF DISCRETION 

T HE next morning at ten o'clock, when Jim 
Lascelles appeared for the second time in Hill 
Street, Mayfair, he was received in the blue 
drawing-room by the lilac frock and its remarkable 
canopy. Jim fell back a step before the picture they 
presented. 

“My aunt!” said he. 

“The frock is a sweet, v said Miss Perry. “Isn’t it? 
Muffin’s-” 

“Goose Girl, you are marvelous!” 

“I think the hat must flop a bit too much ... in 
places. It makes people turn round to stare at it.” 

“Of course it does, you foolish person,” said Jim with 
little guffaws of rapture. “It is an absolute aboriginal 
runcible hat. How did you come by it? There are 
deep minds in this.” 

“Lord Cheriton chose it.” 

“My noble patron and employer. It does him credit. 
That hat is an achievement.” 

“Aunt Caroline doesn’t like it, especially in church.” 
“Aunt Caroline is a Visigoth. Let us forget her. Sit 
there, you Goose, where you sat yesterday. And if you 
don’t move or speak for an hour you shall have a cream 
bun.” 

It was bribery, no doubt, but Miss Perry prepared at 
once to earn the promised reward. 

“You are so marvelous,” said Jim, “that poor painting 

105 



io6 


ARAMINTA 


chaps ought not to look at you. Oho! I begin to have 
light. One sees where that lilac arrangement and that 
incredible headpiece came from. By the way, Goose 
Girl, is it conceivable that Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, 
is one of your grand relations?” 

“She is my great-grandmamma,” said Miss Perry. 

“She must be. What has old Dame Nature been up 
to, I wonder? Copying former successes. And old Sir 
President History, R.A., famous painter of genre, re¬ 
peating himself like one o’clock.” 

Jim Lascelles began to limn the incredible hat with 
remarkable boldness and vigor. 

“By all the gods of Monsieur Gillet,” he said vain- 
gloriously, “they will want a rail to guard it at the 
Luxembourg.” 

Yet Jim was quite a modest young fellow. Could it 
be already that the magic potion was in the veins of a 
sane and charming youth? 

“Goose Girl,” said Jim, “it’s clear enough that if the 
Duchess was your great-grandmamma, Thomas Gains¬ 
borough, R.A., was my old granddad. Now move not 
the Goose Piece. She wear-eth a mar-vel-ous hat!” 
Jim’s charcoal was performing all kinds of antics. “Chin 
Piece quite still. Wonderful natural angle. Can you 
keep good if you remove your paw from your mouth?” 

“Yes, Jim, I will try to,” said Miss Perry with superb 
candor and docility. 

“Very well, we’ll risk it. Keep saying to yourself, 
'Only thirty-five minutes more and I get a cream bun.’ ” 

“Yes, Jim,” said Miss Perry with an air of intelligence 
that was almost uncanny. 

“Paws down. Hold ’em thusly. Move not the Chin 
Piece the Young Man said. No and not the Whole of 
the Pink and White and Blue and Yellow Goose Piece 
neither.” 


MISS PERRY 


107 


As Jim continued the study of his great subject his 
language assumed lyrical form. 

'Taws down,” said Jim. “She approacheth her Mouth 
Piece upon the pain of losing her Bun. Paw Pieces 
quite qui-et. Move not the Chin Piece, the Young Man 
said.” 

The blue eyes of Miss Perry were open to their limit. 
They seemed to devour the slow-ticking clock upon the 
chimney piece. At last virtue was able to claim its 
reward. 

“Cream bun, please.” The drawl of Miss Perry was 
unaffectedly ludicrous. 

“It can’t possibly be an hour yet.” 

“It is, Jim.” The conviction of Miss Perry was over¬ 
whelming. “It is honestly .” 

“So be it. Young Man taketh Goose Girl’s word of 
honor.” From his coat pocket he produced a neat packet. 
“Goose Girl presenteth Paw Piece,” said he, “to receive 
Diploma of Merit. A short interval for slight but well- 
deserved nourishment.” 

Miss Perry lost no time in divesting the packet of its 
envelope of white paper. A crow of human delight 
greeted the seductive delicacy of the contents. And there 
followed immediately a very large bite out of a bun of 
quite modest dimensions. 

Said Miss Perry: “It is almost as nice, Jim, as the 
ones that come from Gunter’s.” 

“It is their own brother. This comes from Gunter’s.” 

“R-r-really.” It was quite a pyrotechnical display of 
the letter “r.” “But those that Gobo brings me are 
larger.” 

“They grow more than one size at Gunter’s. Gobo is 
a bit of a duke, I dare say.” 

“He is a duke,” said Miss Perry. 

“If I were a duke,” said Jim, “I should bring you the 


io8 


ARAMINTA 


large size. But as I am only Jim Lascelles, who lives 
at Laxton with his old mother, you will have to be con¬ 
tent with the small ones.” 

It may have been that Miss Perry was a shade dis¬ 
appointed, because the small ones meant only a bite and 
a bittock. But she contrived to mask her feelings. 
Although brought up in the country, she had excellent 
breeding. 

“Jim,” said Miss Perry, “where is Laxton?” 

“Quite a ducal question.” 

“Is it as far from London as London is from Slocum 
Magna ?” 

“I acquit you of arriere-pensee. Here is Lord Cheri- 
ton. You had better ask him.” 

That peer in flawless morning attire entered the room 
with his most fatherly air. 

“Is it my privilege to make you known to one another ? 
My ward, Miss Perry. Mr. Lascelles, the coming Gains¬ 
borough.” 

“Oh, I’ve known Jim-” Miss Perry began blurting, 

when in quite the old Widdiford manner Jim Lascelles 
dealt a stealthy but unmistakable Number Nine Kick on 
her Best Shin Bone. 

Inquired Miss Perry of Lord Cheriton with truly won¬ 
derful presence of mind, “Can you tell me where Laxton 
is?” According to an old-fashioned recipe there is no 
spur for the wits like a Number Nine Kick on your Best 
Shin Bone. 

“Certainly I can,” said my lord with courtly alacrity. 
“Laxton is an outlying part of our vast metropolis. A 
most interesting place with many honorable associations.” 

“Jim,” the luckless Miss Perry was beginning, but on 
this occasion Jim Lascelles had no need to do more than 
show her his honest right boot, while Cheriton’s sense 
of hearing was by no means so acute as it might have 



MISS PERRY 


109 


been; “Mr. Lascelles,” Miss Perry managed to correct 
herself, “lives at Laxton.” 

“Then we are in a position,” said Cheriton, “to con¬ 
gratulate Mr. Lascelles and also to congratulate Laxton. 
But tell me, Lascelles, why do you live in an outlying 
part of the vast metropolis when the center so clearly 
calls you?” 

“We live at Laxton, my mother and I, because it is 
cheap but respectable.” 

“I trust the presence of my ward Miss Perry does not 
retard the progress of your artistic labors ?” 

“Quite the contrary I assure you,” said Jim with ex¬ 
cellent politeness. 

“I am so glad. But as you may have already noticed, 
Miss Perry has Hair in artistic matters.” 

Jim Lascelles, it seemed, had noticed that. 

“It is a very remarkable case of heredity. You see, 
my dear Lascelles, Gainsborough painted her great-grand¬ 
mamma.” 

“So I understand,” said Jim with immense solemnity. 

“It is such a satisfaction to me, my dear Lascelles, 
that Miss Perry’s taste in art is so sure. We go to the 
National Gallery together, hand in hand as it were, to 
admire the great Velasquez.” 

“He is a sweet,” said Miss Perry. 

“And, my dear Lascelles, we profoundly admire the 
great Rembrandt also.” 

“He is a sweet too,” said Miss Perry. 

“And, my dear Lascelles, together we share—Miss 
Perry and I—a slight distrust of the permanent merit of 
Joseph Wright of Derby. The fact is, Joseph Wright 
of Derby somehow fails to inspire our confidence. One 
can understand Joseph Wright of Sheffield perfectly well; 
or even perhaps—mind I do not say positively—Joseph 
Wright of Nottingham; but I put it to you, Lascelles, 


110 


ARAMINTA 


can one accept Joseph Wright of Derby as belonging to* 
all time?” 

“I agree with you, sir,” said Jim. “Yet was there not 
once an immortal born at Burton-on-Trent ?” 

“One has never heard that there was,” said Cheriton 
with an air of pained surprise. “And that is a matter 
upon which one is hardly open to conviction. By the 
way, Lascelles, which of England’s fair pastures had the 
glory of giving birth to your genius?” 

As a preliminary measure Jim Lascelles showed Miss 
Perry his boot. 

“I was born,” said Jim modestly, yet observing that 
the blue eyes of Miss Perry were solemnly fixed on 
his boot, “at a place called Widdiford in the North of 
Devon.” 

“Yes, of course, I ought to have guessed as your father 
and I were together at Harrow. I clearly remember that 
it was the opinion of the fourth form common room that 
the finest clotted cream and the choicest strawberry jam 
in the world came from Widdiford.” 

“It is almost as nice at Slocum Magna,” said Miss 
Perry, in spite of the covert threat that was still lurking 
in Jim’s right boot. 

“Oh, really!” said my lord. “Happy, happy days of 
youth, when the cream was really clotted and the straw¬ 
berries were really ripe! But one seems to remember 
that Widdiford is celebrated for something else.” 

Miss Perry was prepared to enlighten Lord Cheriton, 
but Jim’s boot rose ferociously. 

“Stick paw in Mouth Piece,” came a truculent whisper, 
“and merely think of cream buns.” 

“Widdiford,” said Cheriton. “In what connection has 
one heard that charmingly poetic name ? Ah, to be sure, 
Widdiford is the place at which they have not quite got 
the railway, don’t you know.” 


MISS PERRY 


hi 


“Yes,” said Miss Perry, “but it is only three miles 
away.” 

“And what is the proximity of Widdiford to Slocum 
Magna?” 

“The best part of two miles,” said Jim Lascelles, boldly 
taking the bull by the horns. “Rather a coincidence, isn’t 
it, sir, that we should have been at the Red House at 
Widdiford and that Miss Perry should have lived at 
the Vicarage at Slocum Magna? In fact, I seem to 
remember Miss Perry or one of her sisters as quite 
a tot of a girl sitting as good as pie in the vicarage 
pew.” 

Here it was that Jim’s boot did wonders. Miss Perry 
was simply besieged by voices from the upper air urging 
her to give everything away completely. She refrained, 
however. Her respect for Jim’s boot enabled her to 
continue sitting as good as pie. 

Cream buns are very effective in certain situations, 
while in others an uncompromising right boot may be 
equally successful. To Jim Lascelles belongs the credit 
of having assimilated this admirable truth quite early 
in life. 

Cheriton turned to see what progress Jim had made 
with his labors. 

“Capital progress, Lascelles,” said he. Yet something 
appeared to trouble my lord. “Upon my word, either 
one’s eyes betray one or the color of your lady’s hair is 
yellow.” 

“Is it, sir?” said the innocent James. “Why, yes, as 
yellow as the light of the morning.” 

“The hair of the Duchess is unmistakably auburn.” 

“Why, yes,” Jim allowed; “but really, sir, don’t you 
think yellow will do just as well?” 

Cheriton gazed at Jim Lascelles in deep astonish¬ 
ment. 


112 


ARAMINTA 


“My dear fellow,” he said, “I hope you appreciate the 
terms of the commission. You are asked to make a 
precise and exact copy of Gainsborough’s Duchess of 
Dorset for Cheriton House, not to execute a tour de force 
of your own. Really, Lascelles, that hair! And the 
set of the hat is surely not that of the original. I almost 
think, my friend, you will have to start again.” 

Jim put his hands in his pockets. Upon his handsome 
countenance was a very whimsical if rather dubious ex¬ 
pression. 

“Lord Cheriton,” he said solemnly, “if I could have 
afforded to lose a cool hundred pounds, which I don’t 
mind saying is more than all I earned last year, I should 
not have accepted this commission. As I have accepted 
it I shall do my best; and if the results are not satisfactory 
I shall not look for remuneration.” 

“Well, Lascelles, that is a straightforward proposition 
certainly. I hope you have not fallen into this con¬ 
founded French method of looking at things. The hair 
of that girl is enough to make Gainsborough turn in his 
grave. Take a fresh canvas, my friend.” 

Jim Lascelles laid his head to one side. He sighed a 
little, but there was a twinkle in his eye. Beyond a doubt 
the yellow was extremely bold and the hair of the Duchess 
was auburn. 

What of the cause of the mischief? There she sat 
on the sofa in her favorite pose, blissfully unconscious 
of the trouble she had wrought, for it hardly admitted of 
doubt that her thoughts were of cream buns. And fur¬ 
ther, it seemed to Jim Lascelles that beyond question her 
hair had been painted by the light of the morning. 
Cheriton, however, was too much preoccupied with the 
Duchess to observe that fact. 

“My dear Miss Araminta,” said he, “as this is a really 
fine morning, and this is really the month of May, let us 


MISS PERRY 


ii3 

stroll into the park and watch young England performing 
aquatic feats on the Serpentine. And after luncheon, if 
the weather keeps fine, we will go to the circus.” 

“It will be too sweet!” said Miss Perry. 


CHAPTER XII 


JIM LASCELLES TAKES A DECISIVE STEP 


C AROLINE CREWKERNE’S “Wednesdays” 
had not been so well attended for years. They 
had been at their meridian two decades earlier in 
the world’s history, when the spacious house in Hill Street 
was the fount of some of the most malicious gossip to 
be obtained in London. But time’s passing had bereft 
Caroline of something of her vigor and perhaps still more 
of her savoir-faire. She had grown difficult, and she 
had begun “to date.” 

However, it had been recently decreed that Caroline 
Crewkerne should come again into vogue. People were 
to be seen at her Wednesdays who had not been seen 
there for years. 

There was George Betterton for one. And the 
worldly-wise did not hesitate to account for his presence 
and even to derive pleasure and profit therefrom. Cheri- 
iton and he were both popular men; and about the third 
week in May two to one against George and three to one 
against Cheriton were taken and offered. 

“Cheriton has the better ringcraft,” said students of 
form, “but Gobo, of course, has a punch in his Garter.” 

“I assure you, my dear,” said a decidedly influential 
section of the public, “the creature is a perfect simpleton. 
I assure you she couldn’t say ‘Bo!’ to a goose. It is 
inconceivable that two men in their position should make 
themselves so supremely ridiculous. And both of them 
old enough to be her grandfather.” 


JIM LASCELLES TAKES A STEP 115 

“Caroline Crewkerne is behind it all,” said the philos¬ 
ophers. “That is a very clever old woman. But how 
odious it is that she should egg them on to make such 
an exhibition of themselves.” 

All the same, the exhibition was enjoyed hugely. And 
when the Morning Post announced that on a certain 
evening the Countess of Crewkerne would give a dance 
for her niece Miss Perry there was a widespread desire 
to receive an invitation. 

Invitations were liberally dispensed, but when they 
came to hand there were many who were fain to consider 
that a fly had crept into the ointment. “Fancy dress” 
was written at the top in a style of caligraphy not un¬ 
worthy of Miss Pinkerton’s academy for young ladies. 
Miss Burden had been commanded to do so at the eleventh 
hour. 

“The man Cheriton is responsible for this,” complained 
those who desired neither the expense nor the incon¬ 
venience of habiting themselves in the garb of their 
ancestors, “because he has a leg—of sorts!” 

That may have been partly the reason; but in justice 
to Cheriton it may be right to observe that, unless he had 
found a weightier pretext, Caroline Crewkerne would 
never have assented to any such condition. Indeed, it 
was only after high argument between them that Cheriton 
managed to get his way. 

“You must always be flamboyant and theatrical,” 
grunted Caroline. “All the world knows you think you 
look well in breeches.” 

“But I protest, my dear Caroline, it is merely one’s 
desire to put another plume in your helmet. As Ara- 
minta, Duchess of Dorset, the creature will set the town 
on fire. Pelissier is coming this afternoon to make a 
faithful copy of the picture.” 

“It has been copied once already.” 


116 


ARAMINTA 


“Ah, no! It supplied an idea or two merely. When 
you see it in every detail, precisely as Gainsborough saw 
it, you will observe the difference.” 

“People must be as sick of the picture as I am by this 
time.” 

“Nonsense! They are only just beginning to realize 
that you’ve got a picture.” 

Cheriton, however, may have had a still deeper motive 
for his insistence on this eccentric course. When the 
cards of invitation had been duly issued he rather let the 
cat out of the bag. 

“Of course, Caroline’” said he, “you would be obstinate 
and have your own way about that fellow George Better- 
ton, but you know as well as I do that in any kind of 
fancy clothes he looks like a boa constrictor.” 

At first Cheriton professed himself unable to decide 
whether he should appear as Charles II, or as John 
Wesley. In the end, however, he decided in favor of 
the former. Miss Burden had not been so excited for 
years. For a whole week after the momentous decision 
was taken the subject filled her thoughts. One day at 
luncheon she submitted to my lord a problem of peculiar 
difficulty. 

“Not a problem at all, to my mind. Simplest thing 
in the world, my dear lady. There is only one possible 
character you can go as.” 

“I had been thinking of Mary Queen of Scots,” said 
Miss Burden, hardly daring to hope that Lord Cheriton 
would give his sanction. 

“Mary Queen of who?” snarled Caroline. 

“No, my dear Miss Burden,” said the eminent author¬ 
ity, “the only possible person you can go as is Katherine 
of Aragon.” 

“Cheriton, that is ridiculous,” said Caroline flatly. 
“I shall not allow Miss Burden to appear in any such 


JIM LASCELLES TAKES A STEP 


n 7 


character. A Jane Austen spinster will be far more 
appropriate and far less expensive.” 

“My dear Caroline, do you wish Miss Burden to forfeit 
entirely her natural distinction?” 

Miss Burden blushed most becomingly at his lord¬ 
ship’s remark. She looked almost as startled as a fawn. 
Cheriton had never seen her display so much color as 
when he made her a little bow to attest his bona fides. 
It was rather a pity, all the same, that his smile uncon¬ 
sciously resembled that of a satyr. 

“It is twenty-five minutes past two, Lord Cheriton,” 
announced Miss Perry, putting a large sugarplum in her 
mouth, “and you have promised to take me to the circus.” 

“Cheriton,” said Caroline. “I forbid your doing any¬ 
thing of the kind. To spend three afternoons a week 
at a circus is outrageous.” 

“They are so educational,” said Cheriton. “Develop 
the mind. Show how intelligence can be inculcated into 
the most unlikely things. Horses good at arithmetic, 
dogs playing whist, cats indulging in spiritualism. Very 
educational indeed. Clown imitating monkey in lifelike 
manner. Illustration of the origin of species. One more 
sugarplum, my dear Miss Araminta, and then March- 
banks will summon one of these wonderful new auto¬ 
mobiles, if possible, with a tonneau painted pink.” 

“Gobo is going to take me to the Horse Show to¬ 
morrow/’ Miss Perry announced. 

“Who, pray, is Gobo?” demanded in one breath Aunt 
Caroline and Lord Cheriton. 

“He asked me to call him Gobo,” said Miss Perry, 
helping herself calmly to sugarplums, “and I asked him 
to call me Goose.” 

Cheriton’s countenance was a study. The same might 
be said of Aunt Caroline’s. 

“My dear young lady,” said Cheriton, “this really can- 


n8 


ARAMINTA 


not be. One of the most dangerous men in London. 
Upon my word, Caroline, you must forbid that old ruffian 
the house. As for the Horse Show, it is clearly out of 
the question. ,, 

“I promised Gobo,” said Miss Perry, “and I don’t like 
to break a promise—do you?” 

“My dear young lady, aren’t you a little new to the 
world to make a promise, let alone to keep one! I speak 
as I feel sure your papa would do were he in my place, 
and as I know I should do were I in the place of your 
papa. Your Aunt Caroline is quite of that opinion; I 
speak for her also. You must not call that man Gobo, 
he must not call you Goose; and as for the Horse Show, 
it is out of the question.” 

“But everybody calls me Goose,” said Miss Perry, 
“because I am rather a silly.” 

“Caroline,” said Cheriton with much gravity, “if you 
will take the advice of your oldest friend you will forbid 
that man the house. My dear Miss Araminta, let us 
try to obliterate a very disagreeable impression by spend¬ 
ing a quietly educational afternoon at the circus.” 

When on the morning of the great day of the fancy 
dress ball Miss Perry entered the presence of Jim Lascelles 
as the faithful embodiment, down to the minutest par¬ 
ticular, of Gainsborough’s masterpiece, that hard-working 
young painter was seized with despair. It took the form 
of a gasp. 

“Goose Girl,” said he, “I shall have to give up coming 
here. I paint you all the morning, I think of you all the 
afternoon and evening, and I dream of you all night. 
You know you have rather knocked a hole in my little 
world.” 

“There will be ices to-night,” said Miss Perry. “Lord 
Cheriton almost thinks pink ices are nicest.” 

“Confound Lord Cheriton!” Jim spoke with unpar- 


JIM LASCELLES TAKES A STEP 119 

donable bluntness. “Confound pink ices! Confound 
you!” 

^ “I thought I would just put on my new frock to see 
if you think it is as nice as my lilac one.” 

“I have no thoughts at all this morning, about your 
new frock' or about anything in the wide world. My 
wretched brain goes round and round, and what do you 
suppose it is because of?” 

“I don’t know, Jim,” said Miss Perry. 

“It is because of you. Look at that canvas you’ve 
ruined. Yellow hair—Gainsborough hat—lilac frock— 
full-fledged cream bun appearance. You will lose me 
my commission, which means a cool hundred pounds out 
of my pocket, and my unfortunate mother has denied 
herself the common necessaries of life to pay for my 
education. Goose Girl,” Jim concluded a little hoarsely, 
“I am growing afraid of you. You are a sorceress. 
Something tells me that you will be my ruin.” 

“I wish you had seen Muffin’s mauve,” said Miss 
Perry, who showed very little concern for Jim’s ruin. 

“I have not the least desire to see Muffin’s mauve. In 
fact, I thank the God who looks after poor painters—if 
there is such a deity, which I take leave to doubt—that I 
have not seen it. But I propose to ask you this question : 
-What right have you, Goose Girl, to grow so extrav¬ 
agantly perfect, to get yourself up in this preposterous but 
entrancing manner, and then to come asking a poor wight 
of a painting chap, who is daubing away for dear bread 
and butter, whether he thinks your new frock is as nice 
as the lilac was?”, 

“Muffin’s mauve—” said Miss Perry. 

“Answer me,” said Jim sternly. “You can’t. You 
are a sorceress, a weaver of spells. Well, it so happens 
that I am suspectible to them. I am going to take a 
decisive step. Goose Girl, I am going to kiss you.” 



120 


ARAMINTA 


Without more ado Jim Lascelles advanced upon Miss 
Perry with extended arms and eyes of menace. He 
hugged her literally, new frock and all, in the open light 
of the morning; and further, he gave her one of the most 
resounding kisses that was ever heard in that dignified 
apartment. 

“Get rid of that if you are able to,” said he brazenly. 
“And now sit there as good as pie, while I put that new 
gown upon canvas.” 

Miss Perry did as she was told in a manner which 
implied that she approved decidedly of the whole pro¬ 
ceedings. 

“Goose Girl,” said Jim, attacking the canvas, “you will 
either make me or mar me. Sometimes I feel it might 
be the former, but more often I am convinced it will be 
the latter.” 

“Muffin’s mauve cost a lot of money,” said Miss Perry. 

“Paws down,” said Jim. “The question now for 
gods and men is, can that hair and that frock live to¬ 
gether ?” 

Jim took up a little looking-glass and turned his back 
upon the canvas. He gave a sigh of relief. 

“Yes, they can by a miracle. And yet they out-Gillet 
Gillet.” 

“What will you be to-night, Jim?” asked Miss Perry. 

“Achilles, sulking in my tent.” 

“Where will you put your tent? One can’t dance in 
a tent. And what will you do when you are sulky?” 

“Gnash my teeth and curse my luck.” 

“I will dance with you twice if you would like me to.” 

“Very charming of you. But I shall not be there.” 

“Not be there, Jim!’ 1 ’ There was no mistaking Miss 
Perry’s consternation. 

“Aunt Caroline has not asked me.” 

It was some little solace to Jim Lascelles that incredulity 


JIM LASCELLES TAKES A STEP 121 


and dismay contended upon the usually calm and unruffled 
countenance of Miss Perry. 

“Miss Burden has forgotten you. I must speak to 
her/’ 

Miss Perry rose for that purpose. 

“Sit down, you Goose,” Jim commanded her. “Don’t 
mention it to any one unless you want me to get sacked 
from the house. I am here on sufferance, a poor paint¬ 
ing chap, copying a picture to earn bread and cheese; and 
this ball to-night is being given by the Countess of Crew- 
kerne, for her niece Miss Perry.” 

“But, Jim-” 

“Goose Girl, keep Mouth Piece immovable. Move not 
the Chin Piece, the Young Man said. Think of cream 
buns.” 

“But, Jim-” said Miss Perry. 




CHAPTER XIII 


HIGH REVEL IS HELD IN HILL STREET 

A LL the same, Miss Perry did not dance with Jim 
Lascelles that evening. For Jim accompanied 
his mother to the Theater Royal at Laxton, to 
witness a performance of that admired old-world comedy, 
She Stoops to Conquer. 

He did not appear to enjoy it much. He hardly 
laughed once, and his mother remarked it. 

“What is the matter, my son?” said she. Jim’s 
mother looked absurdly young to occupy the maternal 
relation to such a great hulking fellow. 

“There is a ridiculous girl in my head,” said he, “who 
is above me in station.” 

“That Goose,” said Jim’s mother, a little contempt¬ 
uously it is to be feared. 

“Yes, my dear. She is turning my brain rather badly.” 
Mrs. Lascelles was amused that her son should be so 
serious. 

“If only I had money enough to buy back the Red 
House at Widdiford,” sighed Jim, “I believe I could cut 
out them all.” 

“She was never able to resist the orchard and the south 
wall and the strawberry beds,” Mrs. Lascelles agreed. 

“I never saw such a creature. Those lilac frocks and 
those Gainsborough hats are maddening.” 

“Well, my son, you must paint her portrait and make 
her and yourself famous.” 

“She is famous already, worse luck. She is a nine 

122 


HIGH REVEL HELD IN HILL STREET 


123 


days’ wonder in Mayfair and certain to marry a duke.” 

“That Goose!” 

“It sounds absurd. But as the old French johnny 
says, 'Nothing is so absurd as the truth.’ ” 

“Well, my son,” said Jim’s mother, who believed pro¬ 
foundly in his star, “just paint her and see what comes 
of it.” 

While Jim Lascelles lay that night with his head on 
his arm, dreaming of the Goose Girl, high revel was held 
in Hill Street, Mayfair. All ages and both sexes were 
gathered in the garb of their ancestors in the spacious 
suite of rooms on the first floor. From the moment the 
first seductive strains were put forth by Herr Blaum’s 
Green Viennese Band, and his Excellency the Illyrian 
Ambassador, in the guise of Henry Quatre or the Duke 
of Buckingham—nobody was quite sure which—accom¬ 
panied by Diana of Ephesus, a bread and butter miss who 
looked much too young to be a duchess, went up the 
carpetless blue drawing-room, which seemed at least 
three times the size of ordinary occasions, as indeed was 
the case, there was no doubt that Caroline Crewkerne 
was going to have a great success. 

It may be that Red Cross Knights, Cardinal Richelieus, 
Catherines de’ Medici and those kinds of people are not 
easily susceptible of thrills; but there was one unmis¬ 
takably when George Betterton, in the character of a 
Gentleman of the Georgian Era, took the floor with 
Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough, upon 
his arm. 

The less responsible spirits directed their gaze to 
Charles II. The Merry Monarch was engaged in amiable 
converse with his hostess. Arrayed in an Indian shawl, 
the gift of her Sovereign and a jeweled turban bestowed 
upon her by the Shah of Persia during his last visit to 
this country, together with the insignia of the Spotted 


124 


ARAMINTA 


Parrot duly displayed round her neck, she was in the 
opinion of many a very tolerable representation of a 
heathen deity. As a Gentleman of the Georgian Era and 
Gainsborough’s Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, came down 
the room in a somewhat inharmonious manner, owing 
to the decidedly original views of the former in regard to 
the art he was practicing, the musical voice of Charles II 
rose lightly above the strains of the waltz and the frou¬ 
frou of the dancers. 

“Yes,” said the monarch, “the Georgian Era is suf¬ 
ficiently obvious; but can anybody tell me what has 
happened to the Gentleman?” 

The Georgian Era went its victorious way, however, 
gobbling decidedly, perspiring freely, holding Gains¬ 
borough’s Duchess in a grip of iron, and slowdy but 
surely trampling down all opposition with the greatest 
determination. When, with coxcomb ensanguined, but 
with a solemn gobble of triumph, he returned whence he 
started, a slight but well-defined murmur of applause was 
to be heard on every hand. 

“Georgian Era wins in a canter,” one of the knowing 
could be heard to proclaim. “Evens Gobo against the 
field.” 

“Duchess,” said the Georgian Era with a bow to his 
fair partner, who looked as cool as a cucumber, “you 
must have an ice.” 

“Yes,” said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, promptly, 
“a pink one, please.” 

Said the Second Charles: “Bad form. Decidedly a 
breach of manners to address her as duchess in the cir¬ 
cumstances. But what can one expect of the Georgian 
Era!” 

The Merry Monarch, with the unmistakable air of the 
master of the ceremonies, as indeed he was, proceeded to 
lead forth Katharine of Aragon, who was seen to great 


HIGH REVEL HELD IN HILL STREET 125 

advantage, such was her natural distinction, and who was 
that ill-fated queen to the manner born. 

“Humph!” said the Heathen Deity. “For a bom fool 
she dances very well.” 

The Second Charles danced like a rather elderly angel 
with wings. 

As for the young people, all enjoyed themselves hugely. 
Eligible young men, and not a single one of the other 
kind had gained admittance, had each his dance with the 
fair Araminta, or the fair Daphne, or the fair Evadne, 
or the fair Nell of Old Drury. Of course, Gains¬ 
borough’s masterpiece really brooked no rival, except the 
great canvas in the left-hand corner, which in the full 
glare of the electric light seemed to dispute the supremacy 
of its youthful descendant. 

“Yellow hair knocks spots off the auburn,” said an 
Eldest Son to a lynx-eyed lady to whose apron strings 
he was resolutely tied. 

“A matter of taste,” was the rejoinder. “Yellow is 
not a safe color. It it well known that it means doubtful 
antecedents. Go, Pet, and find Mary.” 

Pet, who was six-feet-four and had leave from 
Knightsbridge Barracks until 5.0 a. m., claimed the 
Watteau Shepherdess, a live little piece of Dresden China, 
who had forty-six thousand in land and thirty-six thou¬ 
sand in Consols, and would have more when Uncle 
William permanently retired from the Cavalry; and who 
was perfectly willing to marry Pet or any one else if her 
mamma only gave her permission to do so. 

Charles II sat out the supper dance with the fair 
Araminta. 

“Miss Goose,” said that sagacious monarch, “never 
dance the dance before supper if you can possibly avoid 
it. You will live longer, you will be able to do ampler 
justice to the menu, you will also be able to get in before 


126 


ARAMINTA 


the squash; and if the quails run short, as is sometimes 
the case, it won’t matter so much as it otherwise might 
have.” 

As far as the Merry Monarch was concerned, however, 
the precautions against the squash and the possibility of 
the quails running short were wholly superfluous. The 
pleasantest corner of the best-situated table had been 
reserved for him days before, and his favorite delicacies 
had been duly earmarked. 

“Miss Goose,” said the Merry Monarch, “have you 
had an ice yet?” 

“I have had seven,” said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset. 

“Pink ones?” asked the Second Charles. 

“Five were pink,” said the Duchess, “one was yellow, 
and one was green. But I think that pink ones are al¬ 
most the nicest.” 

“I concur,” said the Second Charles. 

After supper, before dancing was resumed, some in¬ 
cautious person, after gazing upon Gainsborough’s mas¬ 
terpiece, and subjecting it to some admiring if unlearned 
remarks, pulled aside the curtain which hid from view 
Jim Lascelles’ half-finished copy. 

“Oho!” proclaimed the incautious one in a loud voice, 
“what have we here? Evidently a Sargent in the mak¬ 
ing! Only Sargent could paint that hair.” 

The attention of others was attracted. 

“One would say a Whistler,” said a second critic. 

“A Sargent decidedly,” said a third. “Only he could 
paint that hair.” 

“High art, I dare say,” remarked a fourth, “but isn’t 
it a bit far-fetched?” 

“If Gillet were in London,” said critic the fifth, who 
had more instruction than all the others together, “I 
should say it was Gillet. As he is not, it may be de¬ 
scribed as the work of a not unskillful disciple.” 


HIGH REVEL HELD IN HILL STREET 127 

Cheriton stood listening. 

“It is the work of a young chap named Lascelles,” said 
he; “the coming man, I’m told.” 

Nobody had told Cheriton that Jim Lascelles was the 
coming man, and there was small reason enough to believe 
that he was; but my lord was a member of that useful 
and considerable body which derives a kind of factitious 
importance from the making of imposing statements. 
It seemed to react upon his own status to announce that 
a young chap named Lascelles was the coming man when 
not a soul had heard of the young chap in question. 

“I must remember the name,” said a broad-jowled 
marquis from Yorkshire, who had come up in time to 
hear Cheriton’s statement, and who greatly preferred to 
accept the judgment of others in the fine arts rather 
than exercise his own. “I should like him to paint 
Priscilla.” 

“The very man to paint Priscilla,” said Cheriton with 
conviction. And this must stand to the credit side of 
his account, for it was genuine good nature. 

“What is the subject?” said the first critic. 

“Can’t you see?” said a chorus. “It is Caroline Crew- 
kerne’s Gainsborough.” 

“Which of ’em?” 

“The yellow-haired one, of course.” 

Cheriton screwed a glass into his eye. He had been 
the first to detect that the color of the hair was yellow, 
and yet for some occult reason the solution of the mystery 
had not until that moment revealed itself to him. 

“What damned impertinence!” said he. 

“Anybody been treading on your toes, Cheriton?” 
asked several persons. 

“Do you know, I commissioned that fellow Lascelles 
to make a copy of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, for 
Cheriton House.” 


128 


ARAMINTA 


“And he copies the wrong Araminta!” came a shout 
of laughter. There was really no need to shout, but 
immediately after supper that is the sort of thing that 
happens sometimes. “A good judge too.” 

“Gross impertinence! I think I shall be quite justified 
in repudiating the whole transaction.” 

“Quite, Cheriton,” said the marquis, with a very ob¬ 
vious wink at the company and preparing to jest in the 
somewhat formidable Yorkshire manner. “But it is 
easily explained. Young fellow got a trifle mixed be¬ 
tween Gainsborough’s Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, and 
Nature’s Araminta, Duchess of Brancaster. Very nat¬ 
ural mistake—what?” 

The arrival upon the scene of the Georgian Era and 
the Heathen Deity, the latter walking quite nimbly with 
very little aid from her stick, set the circle of art critics 
in further uproar. 

“Who pulled aside the curtain ?” demanded the mistress 
of the house. “Cheriton, I suspect you.” 

“Anyhow, it is my picture,” said Cheriton coolly, al¬ 
though he felt the game was rather going against him. 

“It is not at all clear to my mind that it is your pic¬ 
ture,” said the sharp-witted Caroline to the delight of 
everybody. “You send a man to copy my Gainsborough, 
and he copies my niece.” 

“A very natural error,” said the marquis, “as we have 
just explained to Cheriton.” 

The Georgian Era was seen to grow uneasy. He 
began to fumble in the costume of his ancestors. Ob¬ 
viously he was not quite sure where the pockets were. 
At last, however, he was able to produce a pair of spec¬ 
tacles, which he proceeded to adjust. 

“Very good likeness,” he said heavily. “Caroline, 
when the picture is finished I should like to purchase it 
for the Cheadle Collection.” 


HIGH REVEL HELD IN HILL STREET 129 

A salvo of derision greeted this speech, but the speaker 
was constitutionally impervious. 

“The picture is not Caroline’s, my dear George,” said 
Cheriton. “It is being painted on my commission.” 

“Excellent likeness,” said George tenaciously. “I 
shall make you a fair offer, Cheriton, for the Cheadle 
Collection.” 

“I am sorry, my dear George, for the sake of the 
Cheadle Collection,” was the amiable rejoinder, “but that 
picture is not for sale.” 

“You are quite right, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crew- 
keme, “the picture is not for sale. I gave permission for 
a copy to be made of my Gainsborough, not of my niece.” 

“It appears to be a question of copyright,” said an 
aspirant to wit. 

“I hold the copyright in both at present,” said Caroline 
in an exceedingly grim manner. 

The strains of the dance began to float through the 
room. The younger section of the company had set to 
partners again; a brace of royalties had arrived, yet in 
spite of that fact jest and counter-jest were in the air. 

“Cheriton was never in the hunt from the start,” said 
the Yorkshire marquis, “if you want my candid opinion.” 

“The luckier he,” said the first critic. “What does 
any man want with a girl who hasn’t a sou, a country 
parson’s daughter?” 

“Upstanding creature,” said critic the second. “Comes 
of a good stock on the distaff side.” 

“Ye-es,” said a third. “Useful.” 

“Finest-looking girl in England,” said a fourth. 

“They can both afford to marry her,” said the marquis, 
“and I will lay the odds that the better man does.” 

“Cheriton gets her in that event.” 

“Gobo for a monkey.” 

All the time, however, in Another Place, the Master 
of the Revels—but to anticipate may be to spoil the story. 


CHAPTER XIV 


UNGENTLEMANLIKE BEHAVIOR OF JIM 

LASCELLES 

J IM LASCELLES continued his task. Each morn¬ 
ing at ten o’clock he arrived at Hill Street and 
worked with diligence until 2.0 p. m. Urged by 
the forces within him, and sustained by the injudicious 
counsel of his mother, he devoted his powers to the 
yellow hair, in spite of the fact that it was his bounden 
duty to copy the auburn. 

On the third morning following the dance Jim’s labors 
were interrupted by Lord Cheriton. Jim was feeling 
rather depressed. For one thing his conscience smote 
him. He had deliberately risked a sum of money which 
he could not afford to lose; and further, it was most 
likely that he was about to offer an affront to his only 
patron. The more work he put into the picture the more 
marked became the difference between it amd the original. 
Again, and this perhaps was an equally solid reason for 
his depression, this morning the Goose Girl had forsaken 
him. She had gone for a ride in the park with her duke. 

Doubtless Cheriton was sharing Jim’s depression. At 
least, when he entered the drawing-room to inspect the 
labors of his protege, a countenance which, as a general 
rule, made a point of exhibiting a scrupulous amiability, 
was clouded over. 

Cheriton’s scrutiny of Jim’s labors was long and par¬ 
ticular. 

A “l invite you to be frank with me, Lascelles,” said he. 
“Is this a copy of the Dorset or is it a portrait of a living 
person?” 


130 


BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 131 

By nature Jim was simple to the verge of the ingenuous. 
But really, his predicament was so awkward that he did 
not know what answer to make. 

“Some of it is Gainsborough,” he said lamely, “and 
some of it, I’m afraid, is Nature.” 

“My friend,” said Cheriton judicially, “that hardly 
seems a plain answer to a straightforward question.” 

Jim agreed. Suddenly his jaw dropped and he burst 
into a queer laugh. “The fact is, sir, I am in a fix.” 

Cheriton regarded the young man in a highly critical 
manner. 

“Yes, Lascelles,” he said slowly, “I think you are.” 

“A regular fix,” said Jim with emphasis, as if he 
desired to gain confidence from a frank statement of his 
trouble. 

His face seemed to ask for a little sympathy, but not 
a suggestion of it was forthcoming. 

“What can a fellow do?” said Jim desperately. “She 
will come and sit here on that sofa in a better light than 
the duchess. The sun of the morning will shine upon 
her; and when Nature comes to handle pink and white 
and blue and yellow she has a greater magic than even 
Gainsborough had.” 

Cheriton shook his head with magisterial severity. 

“My friend,” said he, “you have a very weak case. 
And I feel bound to say that the manner in which you 
present it does not, in my opinion, make it stronger.” 

“I expect not,” was the rueful reply. “But dash it 
all, what is a fellow to do if she will come and sit on that 
sofa and pose like Romney’s Emma?” 

“His duty, to my mind, is absolutely clear, and I think 
it is simple. He should order the intruder out of the 
room.” 

“Oh, yes, I know that is what a really strong man 
would do.” Jim gave a groan. “I know that is what 


132 


ARAMINTA 


a Velasquez or a Rembrandt would have done. And he 
would have cursed her like fury for sitting there at all.” 

“Yes, I think so,” said the mellifluous Cheriton, 
“Rembrandt especially. In my opinion Rembrandt would 
have shaken his fist at her.” 

“That is the worst of being a mediocrity. It takes a 
chap of enormous character to do these things.” 

“I am afraid, Lascelles, the plea of mediocrity will 
do nothing for you. If anything, it weakens your 
case. You must either plead consummate genius or 
nothing.” 

“I am not such a fool as to believe that I’m a genius,” 
said the young man with admirable frankness. 

“I am not such a fool as to believe you are either,” 
said Cheriton with a frankness that was equally admir¬ 
able. “And therefore, examining your conduct with all 
the leniency the circumstances will permit, I am unable 
to find any excuse for it. I fear my old friend Lady 
Crewkerne is much annoyed—forgive my plainness, 
Lascelles, but I feel it to be necessary—by your intre¬ 
pidity in copying her niece instead of her Gainsborough; 
and I, in the circumstances, cannot help sharing her 
disapproval.” 

“Rub it in, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim. He stuck his 
hands in his pockets and began to whistle softly. 

“Yes, my friend, I intend to do so. In fact, I find 
it difficult to express myself adequately upon the subject, 
without saying more than one who was at school with 
your father might consider it desirable to say to a young 
man who has his way to make in the world.” 

“Say just as much as you like, sir. I know Lve made 
an ass of myself. And of course I haven’t a leg to stand 
on, really. And I expect the old cat will carpet me too.” 

My lord dropped his eyeglass with an air of dignified 
agitation. 


BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 133 

“I beg your pardon, Lascelles. To whom do you 
refer?” 

“To that damned old woman!” said Jim with an air 
of absolute impenitence. 

“Can it be possible that you mean Caroline Crewkerne, 
my oldest friend?” 

“I mean the aunt of Nature’s immortal work,” said 
Jim coolly. “I really can’t help it; I feel that I must 
curse somebody this morning. And as she is bound to 
curse me, I don’t see why I shouldn’t return the com¬ 
pliment.” 

“Your habit of explanation, Lascelles, is decidedly 
unfortunate.” 

“Well, let me know the worst, Lord Cheriton. I 
suppose you withdraw your offer, and I am to be bundled 
out neck and crop with my canvas and forbidden to come 
here again?” 

“I certainly withdraw my offer. In regard to pro¬ 
hibition of the house, that, of course, rests entirely with 
my old friend, of whom you have spoken in a singularly 
disrespectful—and shall I say ungentlemanlike?—man¬ 
ner.” 

“I couldn’t help it,” said Jim humbly. “It has done 
me good to say it. But of course, I’m in the wrong 
altogether.” 

“You are, undoubtedly. To my mind, you are more 
in the wrong than one could have expected a young man 
of your antecedents, upbringing and general attainment 
to be.” 

“If a confounded girl will make a habit of coming into 
this room continually to ask your opinion of her hat and 
her frock and whether you have ever tasted cream buns 
and pink ices and whether you think Muffin’s mauve was 
as nice as her lilac is-” 

“My dear Lascelles,” interrupted Cheriton, “your 



134 


ARAMINTA 


habit of explanation is really most unfortunate.’’ 

“Well, kick me out, sir, and my canvas too,” said Jim 
desperately, “and have done with it.” 

Jim Lascelles, rash fellow that he was, feeling himself 
forever disgraced, and that he had forfeited the respect 
of his only patron, proceeded to pack up his gear. 

“I’m afraid this half finished canvas presents a dif¬ 
ficulty.” 

“You have repudiated it, haven’t you?” said Jim 
rather fiercely. 

“Unquestionably as a copy of the Dorset. But all 
the same, it can hardly be permitted to leave this 
house.” 

“Why not, Lord Cheriton ?” 

“It is an unauthorized portrait of my ward, Miss Perry, 
who is still in statu pupillari.” 

Jim allowed that such was the case. “But it’s rather 
hard on a fellow. I’ve put a lot of work into that pic¬ 
ture.” 

“I can see you have, Lascelles.” 

“And, of course,” said Jim injudiciously, “I should 
like to put a lot more work into it. It is such a fine 
subject.” 

“The subject is much too fine, if I may venture an 
opinion. My advice is, burn the canvas and forget that 
it ever existed.” 

“Burn it!” cried Jim aghast. 

“I am afraid if you don’t Lady Crewkerne will.” 

“But she has no right-” said Jim fiercely. 

“Her right, my dear fellow, is hardly to be contested. 
I am afraid we shall find that this half finished canvas is 
her property.” 

“In that case,” said Jim, apprehensive but defiant, “I 
shall remove it at once to my studio.” 

Cheriton had dropped his bomb. The gyrations of his 



BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 135 

victim, whom he had fully alarmed, seemed to afford him 
a cynical pleasure. 

“It would be indeed a crime, I grant you/’ he said, “to 
destroy such an extremely promising work of art. Let 
us seek an alternative.” 

“The only alternative is that I should remove it at 
once.” 

“In its half finished state? That would be a pity.” 

“It shall not be burned if I can possibly help it,” said 
Jim. 

During the pause which followed the young man 
seemed to be disconcerted more than a little. 

“I have a suggestion to make to you, Lascelles,” said 
his patron. “In the circumstances I think it is quite the 
most you can hope for.” 

“Whatever it may be, Lord Cheriton, I shall be happy 
to consider it,” said Jim with a rueful smile. 

“In the first place, it seems to me that the best thing I 
can do is to get Lady Crewkerne’s permission for you 
to complete the portrait of her niece. Now, I warn you 
it may not be easy. As I think you realize, she is a 
difficult member of a difficult sex. But I am only pre¬ 
pared to do this upon one condition.” 

Jim asked dismally what the condition was. 

“It is this, Lascelles.” Cheriton’s air suddenly grew 
very businesslike. “If I can obtain permission—and the 
‘if’ is a big one—for you to finish your portrait of Miss 
Perry I must be allowed to purchase it upon my own 
terms.” 

“Yes,” said Jim, “that is only fair.” 

It began to seem that things were taking a course more 
favorable than he could have hoped. 

“Assuming I can obtain permission, and you finish the 
picture in the manner in which you have begun, it will be 
a pleasure to hang it at Cheriton House.” 


136 


ARAMINTA 


Jim Lascelles was touched by the kindness of his 
patron. 

“Lord Cheriton,” he said with admirable simplicity, 
“may I offer you an apology for my rotten behavior. 
And I hope you’ll accept it, because you’ve been so kind 
to me—much kinder than you ought to have been really. ” 

“Yes, Lascelles,” said the judicial Cheriton, “I am 
inclined to take that view myself. But your father was 
good to me at school; and you are young, and you have 
talent, and you have a rare subject to engage it, and I 
cannot help feeling that it would be a pity if you lost the 
opportunity which, in a sense, you have had the vision 
to create. Mind, Lascelles, I don’t excuse you in the 
least. Take your conduct all around it has been abomin¬ 
able, but in my humble judgment, had it been more 
correct, I personally should not hold such a hopeful view 
of your future. For you have conformed to my fixed 
belief that all the men who are worth anything begin by 
breaking the rules. Blut when it comes to the breaking 
of rules, pray remember how easy it is to get expelled 
from the school. And should that happen—well, of 
course, you are done for unless you are able to found a 
school of your own.” 

Jim Lascelles forbore to smile at this piece of didac¬ 
ticism. He was full of gratitude. The old “perisher” 
had behaved so much more nicely than he need have 
done. 

“If only I had genius,” sighed Jim, “I would give my 
days to the fashioning of the most absolute masterpiece 
that ever adorned the walls of Cheriton House.” 

“You remember Carlyle’s definition?” said the owner 
of Cheriton House. 

“Carlyle was a blatant old donkey.” 

“That was always my opinion. And I once had the 
privilege of telling him so, and, what is more, the noisy 


137 


BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 

fellow admitted it. Doubtless what he meant to express 
by his definition was the fact that Genius is perfect sub¬ 
mission to the Idea.” 

“Well, here goes for perfect submission to the Idea,” 
said Jim. 

He took up his brush and his palette and gave a very 
deft touch to the garments of Miss Perry. 

In almost the same moment a very ludicrous drawl 
assailed his ear. “Do you like my new riding habit?” 
Miss Perry herself had entered the room. 

Jim Lascelles made a gesture of despair. He kept his 
back turned resolutely upon the new riding habit. 

“Dear me!” said Cheriton, “Artemis.” 

“Do you know,” said Miss Perry, whose voice had a 
thrill in it, “in Rotten Row I nearly knocked a policeman 
over.” 

“Figuratively, I hope,” said my lord. 

Without a doubt Miss Perry in her new riding habit 
looked positively annihilating. Lord Cheriton was cer¬ 
tainly of that opinion. As for Jim Lascelles, he waved 
her away from him with great energy. 

“That’s the sort of thing,” he said, making a tacit 
appeal for protection and sympathy. 

“Miss Goose,” said my lord, “Mr. Lascelles has made 
a very serious indictment against you.” 

“Has he ?” Miss Perry opened very large, very round, 
and very blue eyes upon Jim. 

“Mr. Lascelles complains,” said my lord with paternal 
severity, “that while he is assiduously engaged in copying 
the famous portrait of your great-grandmamma, you 
persist in coming into this room in your smartest gowns, 
in sitting in the middle of the sofa, in absorbing the best 
light, in posing in a manner that no really sensitive painter 
can possibly resist, with the melancholy result that you 
literally force him to paint you instead of your great- 


138 


ARAMINTA 


grandmamma, quite, as he assures me, against his in¬ 
clination and his judgment.” 

“Oh, but I don’t mind at all,” said Miss Perry with 
great friendliness. “It made me rather tired at first 
holding my chin like this, but at the end of an hour I 
always get a cream bun.” 

“At the end of an hour you always get a cream bun! 
Do you indeed.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Perry, “small ones, but they are 
almost as nice as the large ones, I think.” 

Lord Cheriton was dumbfounded. 

“Well, what can a fellow do?” said Jim desperately. 
“What with the sun stuck up there, southeast by south, 
and this pink and white and blue and yellow arrangement 
on the sofa yonder. As for the chin—well, if a chin will 
curve like that it must take the consequences.” 

Cheriton was aghast. 

“Say as little as possible, Lascelles, I entreat you. 
Your case is hopeless. But I am bound to own, since 
we have had this astounding revelation of the cream 
buns, without going further into the matter, which one 
naturally shrinks from doing, I must say your future 
as a painter seems brighter than ever.” 

“Thank you, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim modestly. 

“But in regard to your future as a mere unit of society 
one prefers to remain silent.” 

Jim Lascelles turned his gaze upon Miss Perry. It 
was of such a singular truculence that it fairly hypnotized 
that irresponsible into a semblance of discretion. 

“If you will go and put on that new frock,” he said in 
a manner perilously akin to effrontery, “we can get in 
an hour before luncheon, and then to-morrow you will 
start a cream bun in hand.” 

The prospect seemed greatly to the mind of Miss Perry. 

“That will be so awfully nice.” 


139 


BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 

She left the room with great cheerfulness. 

Cheriton regarded Jim Lascelles with the fatherly air 
he was apt to assume towards the world in general. 

“I shall have to revise my estimate of your attain¬ 
ments,” said he. “It is becoming increasingly clear to 
my mind that you may go far.” 

“Gillet said that if I applied myself I might one day 
be able to paint a portrait.” 

“Gillet’s opinion is valuable,” said my lord with the air 
of one who sets a higher value upon his own. He 
examined Jim’s work very critically. “By Jove,” he 
said, “you have had the wit to find a subject. Let us 
live in hope that the artist will prove worthy of it.” 

Jim beamed with pleasure. After all, he had the latent 
ambition of every honest craftsman. 

“My friend, may I give you a word of advice?” 

Jim showed himself becomingly gratified at the pros¬ 
pect of receiving it. 

“It is this,” said his patron impressively. “You must 
acquire the habit of charging more for your pictures.” 

Jim hoped to be able to do so. But times were hard, 
and it was uphill work making a reputation. 

“One appreciates that. But I heard you spoken of as 
the coming man the other night.” 

“If only I had a little more talent,” sighed Jim. 

“If only you had a little more faith in it, Lascelles.. 
It is faith that is so necessary.” 

“All the same, sir, I wish the fairies had been a little 
kinder.” 

“Surely they have been sufficiently kind to the man 
who could pose that head and put that hair upon canvas. 
But what I wanted particularly to say to you is this. 
My friend Kendal intends asking you to paint a portrait 
of his girl Priscilla.” 

Jim was thrilled. 


140 


ARAMINTA 


“That is awfully good of him,” said he, “and awfully 
good of you, Lord Cheriton.” 

“Perhaps I have the better title to your gratitude, be¬ 
cause as far as Kendal is concerned he is one of those 
sluggish fellows who always prefers to take some one 
else’s opinion rather than form one of his own. I told 
him you were the man to paint Priscilla, and he was 
quite ready to take my word for it. And I am by no 
means sure you are not.” 

Jim Lascelles could not help feeling that he did not 
deserve such kindness. “I wish now,” said he, “I hadn’t 
behaved so rottenly.” 

“Behave well to Kendal,” said the magnanimous 
Cheriton. “That is the really important matter. Paint 
his girl Priscilla to the best of your ability, and be careful 
to charge him five hundred guineas.” 

Jim was staggered. 

“Five hundred guineas. Why, he will never pay it. 
He could get an absolute first-rater for that sum.” 

Cheriton sagaciously smiled. 

“No doubt he could. And if Kendal pays five hun¬ 
dred guineas he will consider he’s got one. When I come 
to look at your chef-d'oeuvre on the wall of his gloomy 
and draughty dining room in Yorkshire I shall say, 
‘Kendal, that portrait of Priscilla appears to be an un¬ 
commonly sound piece of work.’ And he will say as 
proud as you please, ‘I should think it was my dear fellow. 
That young chap Lascelles turned out absolutely first- 
rate. He charged five hundred guineas for that picture. 
I am telling everybody.’ ” 

Jim Lascelles seemed to be a little troubled by his good 
fortune. “I hope it is quite fair to Lord Kendal to 
charge him five hundred guineas for a portrait one would 
be only too glad to paint for fifty.” 

Cheriton was amused by this naivete. 


BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 


“Simplicity is much to be desired in art,” said he, 
“but it is well not to take it into the market place. There 
is the man with whom one is doing business to consider. 
If Kendal pays fifty guineas for the portrait of Priscilla 
he will think exactly ten times less of it than if he pays 
five hundred; and instead of hanging it in his dining 
room in the worst possible light, he will hang it in one of 
the smaller bedrooms in a very much better one.” 

At this point Cheriton’s homily was interrupted by the 
return of Miss Perry. In her Gainsborough gown which 
she had worn at the fancy dress ball and in her wonderful 
hat, which by some miracle had been clapped on at just 
the right angle, she looked more distracting than any 
human creature ought really to do. Seating herself in 
the middle of the sofa with great composure, she tilted 
her chin to the light of the morning and folded her hands 
in her lap with almost the air of a professional. 

“Out for blood,” said Jim approvingly. 

“Lascelles,” said my lord, “I am almost afraid this 
means a large one.” 

“Such zeal to serve the arts,” Jim agreed, “really 
deserves encouragement.” 

“If Gunter is sincerely interested in art, as one feels 
sure he must be, perhaps he will make a reduction upon 
the large ones if you contract for a quantity.” 

Jim was delighted with the pose and worked very 
happily. He was in high spirits. Owing to his patron’s 
generosity he had got out of his scrape far more easily 
than was to have been expected. Moreover, his prospects 
had taken a sudden and remarkable turn for the better. 
And, these considerations apart, his subject fired him. 
At work in this precious hour he felt that his execution 
had never had such boldness, freedom and authenticity. 

Cheriton watched his protege with approval. As a 
critic he was sufficiently accomplished to detect rare pos- 


142 


ARAMINTA 


sibilities in Jim’s method. Here might be a trouvaille, 
if only the young fellow had thoroughness as well as 
courage. 

Miss Perry had not moved her chin once for nearly 
an hour, so that her guerdon was as good as won; Jim 
Lascelles had yielded for the same period to a genuine 
inspiration; and Cheriton sat at ease regarding with real 
satisfaction the choice fruits that were springing from 
his liberal treatment of the artistic temper, when this 
harmony of sitter, painter and patron was gravely im¬ 
periled by the entrance of a small round dog. As usual, 
he heralded the approach of an old woman and an ebony 
walking stick. 

As soon as Lady Crewkerne entered the blue drawing¬ 
room she was stricken with speechless amazement. Jim 
Lascelles continued to ply his brush in blissful ignorance 
of her arrival; Miss Perry, for political reasons, was 
careful to pay it no attention; Cheriton, however, raised 
a solemn forefinger. Signs were soon forthcoming, 
however, that the mistress of the house was about to 
disregard this warning. 

“Ssssh, Caroline!” 

“What, pray, is the meaning of this?” demanded 
Caroline as soon as the power of speech returned to her. 

“A most critical stage, believe me,” said Cheriton in 
a voice of honey. “Three minutes more and I shall 
invite you to speak with freedom.” 

“Tell me, why is that girl sitting there in the gew-gaws 
of a play-actress?” 

“Ssssh, Caroline! Don’t you see?” 

The absolute composure of the fair sitter and the fact 
that she chose to remain deaf, dumb and blind to the 
intruder seemed to exasperate that autocrat. 

“Tell me, girl, what is the meaning of it?” she 
stormed. 


BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 143 

The ebony walking stick descended heavily upon the 
carpet. 

“Move not the Chin Piece, the Young Man said.” 
Jim’s lips formed the magic words even if they did not 
actually utter them. 

The filmy, far-away look continued in the eyes of Miss 
Perry. She paid heed to none. 

Cheriton lifted again a solemn forefinger. “Ssssh, 
Caroline! One brief instant more. The whole situation 
is most critical.” 

“Tell me, is the creature hypnotized?” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“Who gave permission for her to sit for her portrait? 
In those fal-lals, too.” 

“Amiable old Dame Nature. I ask you, how could she 
refuse it?” 

“I forbid it. Perfectly disgraceful. It shall not go 
on. 

At this moment Miss Perry ventured to speak.. 
“Large cream bun to-morrow morning, please.” 

“Dear me,” said Jim sotto voce. “How time does fly. 
It can’t be an hour already!” 

“Girl,” said Aunt Caroline, “I demand an explanation.” 

Miss Perry having no explanation to offer, Lord 
Cheriton came to her aid. 

“The truth is,” said he in tones of honey, “our dis¬ 
tinguished young friend Mr. Lascelles is the victim of 
a very natural mistake. My idea was, of course, that he 
should be content to copy your Gainsborough, but since 
he has put another interpretation upon his mandate who 
shall blame him?” 

Caroline Crewkerne, however, was not one lightly to 
be appeased. “It is unpardonable that any man should 
venture to paint clandestinely the portrait of my niece.. 
And in my own house too.” 


144 


ARAMINTA 


Jim held himself proudly erect and not without dis¬ 
dain. The old woman’s tone was certainly provocative. 

“Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim with an absence of tact 
which his friend and patron deplored, “I hope the offense 
is not so grave as it seems. The nature of the subject 
is my excuse.” 

The old lady looked Jim over in a decidedly scornful 
manner. She seemed to be in doubt whether such a 
person as Jim was entitled to receive a reply from her. 

“It depends upon the light in which one views the 
matter,” she said in a voice that trembled with anger. “I 
have formed my own opinion about such behavior. I 
must ask you to leave this house immediately, and in 
future it will be closed to you.” 

Jim was stung. Such an unbridled display of des¬ 
potism would have galled the mildest creature alive. 
Cheriton, who by long association with the Whigs under¬ 
stood their arbitrary temper, was really less shocked by 
such an uncivil exhibition than he pretended to be. He 
took Jim Lascelles by the sleeve, drew him aside, and 
spoke to him like a father. 

“Say nothing, my dear fellow. Let her have her head. 
Then leave her to me.” 

Jim, however, was furious. He was young and hot¬ 
headed; and adversity had made him more sensitive on 
the score of his dignity than it is quite wise for a man 
to be. Therefore he was by no means inclined to leave 
the adjustment of the matter to others. Not by looks 
alone did he express resentment. 

“I am sorry, Lady Crewkerne, you feel like this about 
it,” he said with his head in the air. “But I am very 
happy to carry out your instructions. A couple of men 
shall come this afternoon to fetch the canvas.” 

And then, with an incredible absence of judgment, Jim 
Lascelles packed up his tools, and distributing curt bows 


BEHAVIOR OF JIM LASCELLES 145 

to everybody, stalked out of the room and out of the 
house. 

Cheriton exhibited genuine concern. Miss Perry 
looked ready to shed tears. Cream buns apart, she was 
very fond of Jim. 

“Sadly unwise,” said my lord. 

“A deplorable exhibition of impudence,” said Caroline 
Crewkerne. “I shall not give up that canvas. It shall 
be destroyed.” 

“I have grave doubts, Caroline, whether legally i{ can 
be done.” 

For a man of Cheriton’s vaunted wisdom and ex¬ 
perience it was a most injudicious remark. 

“You think so?” was the prompt rejoinder. “That 
decides me. Such persons must be taught a lesson. 
Have the goodness, Cheriton, to ring the bell.” 

Cheriton showed genuine concern. 

“Surely, Caroline,” said he, “you cannot mean that you 
are going to destroy it ?” 

“That is my intention.” 

“Oh, but surely it will be nothing less than a crime.” 

“It shall be destroyed,” said Caroline decisively. 

“But many hours of fine work have been put into that 
picture.” Cheriton spoke with great seriousness. “And 
there is fine thought in it too. To destroy it would be a 
crime.” 

“The man shall be taught manners,” said the implac¬ 
able Caroline. 

“The kettle is always a severe judge of the pot,” mused 
Cheriton. And then aloud: “Really, Caroline, you 
began it.” 

“The man has painted my niece’s portrait without 
obtaining my consent. And when remonstrated with he 
grows insolent.” 

“Well, you know, Caroline, that hand of yours is 


146 


ARAMINTA 


uncommonly heavy. And although no one deplores the 
young man’s conduct for his own sake more deeply than 
I, he acted precisely as his rash and hot-headed father 
would have done in the circumstances.” 

“I am not in the least interested in such a person or his 
belongings,” said Caroline Crewkerne. “But I have 
made up my mind that this picture shall be destroyed.” 


CHAPTER XV 

DIPLOMACY IS CALLED FOR 


C HERITON’S gravity was of a kind he seldom 
displayed. 

“Caroline,” he said, “If you persist in this 
course no right-minded person can ever forgive you. 
The lad is very poor and his history is a sad one. He is 
the son of Lascelles, V.C., as brave a man as ever lived. 
His only fault was that he was too open-handed. But 
for that this young chap would be a man of wealth and 
position.” 

“I can hear nothing further upon the subject,” said 
Caroline Crewkerne, who was adamant. “My mind is 
made up. Cheriton, have the goodness to ring the bell.” 

The affair must have had a tragic ending there and 
then had not the god who watches over poor painters 
seen fit to enact a little providence of his own. At that 
crucial moment there came to Cheriton’s aid no less a 
person than George Betterton. And as if that opportune 
arrival was not in itself enough, Providence took the 
trouble to play a double coup. Almost immediately 
afterwards Marchbanks made the announcement that 
luncheon was ready. 

While Caroline enlarged upon her grievances to his 
Grace and outlined the extreme course she proposed to 
follow, Cheriton scribbled hastily in pencil on the back 
of a card, “Remove immediately half-finished picture 
from No.—Hill Street, Berkeley Square, to The Acacias, 
Hawthorn Road, Laxton.” 


i47 


148 


ARAMINTA 


This accomplished, he proceeded to take John into his 
confidence. He placed the card, together with a 
sovereign, in the palm of that functionary. 

“Go along at once,” said he, “to the people at the Bond 
Street Galleries and give them this card. They are to 
remove the half-finished picture in the blue drawing¬ 
room to that address. By the time luncheon is over it 
must be out of the house. Is that clear?” 

The answer was in the affirmative. 

“See this is done, and when questions are asked all 
you need know upon the subject is that a couple of men 
came and took it away. You understand?” 

John understood perfectly. 

During luncheon Cheriton was seen to particular ad¬ 
vantage. At any time but a very little effort enabled him 
to be one of the most agreeable men in London. To-day 
he excelled. He was full of new stories and choice fresh 
gossip; he was very genial to George Betterton, whom he 
encouraged to discourse at length upon the Militia, 
and to his hostess he gave a tip for the Oaks, a 
species of information for which she had a pronounced 
weakness. 

It was seldom among his intimates that George was 
permitted to mount his hobbyhorse. As for Cheriton, 
he was the last man in the world, as a rule, to consent to 
hold the head of that fantastic animal while George 
established himself firmly in the saddle. But on this 
occasion he did so in the most graceful manner. 

“Excellent speech of yours in the House the other 
evening, my dear fellow,” he said. “I wasn’t there my¬ 
self—Philosophical Society Annual Meeting—but you 
were very carefully reported in The Times. Quite your 
happiest vein, if I may say so. Very sound common 
sense. You thought so, Caroline, did you not?” 

Strange as it may seem, Caroline walked straight into 


DIPLOMACY IS CALLED FOR 


149 


the trap. With all her rather contemptuous knowledge 
of mundane affairs, she had one besetting weakness. She 
attached an absurd importance to any form of politics. 
It was her Whiggery, no doubt. The most consummate 
bores were known to flourish in her sight, or upon the 
slightest pretext her vanity would lead her to believe that 
her fingers were really in the pie, and that she had a very 
considerable hand in the destinies of the empire. 

In the heyday of her glory it used to be asserted freely 
by idle persons that if the country was not actually ruled 
from Hill Street, ministers at least were made and marred 
there. Governments went in fear and trembling of that 
quarter, it was said. And it is by no means improbable 
that Caroline Crewkerne came to believe it. It is sur¬ 
prising what vanity will do for us. 

To-day the smoldering embers of a lifelong illusion 
allowed Caroline Crewkerne to establish George Betterton 
quite firmly astride his hobbyhorse. Cheriton counted 
the minutes of this exquisite boredom. George was al¬ 
ways heavy. He spoke so slowly and impressively that 
he could deliver a platitude in a longer space of time than 
any man living, and he could use fewer words in the 
process. Indeed, upon the strength of this gift he had 
won a reputation for incisive brevity. 

To see Caroline Crewkerne wagging her vain old ears 
in an exaggerated attitude of statesmanlike regard was a 
positive joy to Cheriton, particularly as time was so valu¬ 
able. All the same, the minutes grew tedious in their 
passing. The clock chimed half-past two, and Miss 
Perrv mentioned the circus. 

“Let us postpone the circus until to-morrow, my dear 
Miss Goose, if you really don’t mind,” said Cheriton. 
“The conversation is so absorbing. The preserved ginger 
is highly delectable too.” 

Miss Perry shared the latter opinion. 


ARAMINTA 


150 

“Green Chartreuse or Grand Marnier, my lord?” 

“Both,” said my lord. 

Marchbanks dissembled his surprise in a very expert 
manner. In his eyes, however, a peer of the realm was 
in the happy position of being unable to do wrong. 

It was not, however, that Cheriton indulged in both 
these luxuries. But observing that George Betterton 
chose Green Chartreuse he contrived to smuggle the 
Grand Marnier also to George’s side of the table. He 
then addressed himself to slumber. Twenty minutes 
later he awoke with a little start. 

“Beg pardon, George,” said he. “Did I understand 
you to say the Militia had gone to the dooce and the 
Country must be reconstructed, or that the Country had 
gone to the dooce and the Militia must be reconstructed?” 

“The Country, Cheriton,” said his hostess in her most 
affaire tones; “certainly the Country.” 

“What a good head you have, Caroline! Take after 
your father. Sorry to interrupt you, George. Most able 
discourse. By the way, Caroline, we never have the 
treat of the famous Waterloo brandy these days. Not 
for myself. I never drink brandy; but I was thinking 
of George. It is known to be excellent for any kind 
of disquisition.” 

George Betterton, duly fortified with the Waterloo 
brandy, proceeded on his victorious way. 

“Country gone to the dogs—yes,” said Cheriton. 
“Militia gone to the dooce—quite so. Circus to-morrow, 
Miss Goose. But Gobo quite educational too.” 

Cheriton settled himself again to slumber with a re¬ 
signed and peaceful air. 

It was five minutes past three before Caroline quitted 
the table. In spite of her fund of natural shrewdness she 
could not help feeling—so easy it is for the wisest people 
to deceive themselves—that she had sat at the feet of a 



DIPLOMACY IS CALLED FOR 


151 

political Gamaliel who played ducks and drakes with the 
War Office. As for George Betterton, having been en¬ 
dured with a patience that was not always extended to 
him, without actually giving himself airs, he felt that 
upon the subject of the Militia he really was no end of 
a fellow. Cheriton, who had enjoyed a further half- 
hour’s doze, gave him clearly to understand that he con¬ 
curred in that opinion. 

Back in the drawing-room, Caroline Crewkerne re¬ 
affirmed her intention of destroying the half-finished 
portrait of her niece. 

“An act of great presumption,” said she. “Besides, 
the man was downright insolent.” 

Cheriton had looked for the canvas already, and with 
a whimsical little sigh had looked in vain. It would seem 
that the myrmidons of the Bond Street Galleries had 
done their work. 

“Be more lenient, my dear Caroline,” he said per¬ 
suasively. “Only a boy, you know, and his lot is hard. 
Don’t take the bread out of the mouth of a rising genius 
who has to support his mother. George, my dear fellow, 
throw your weight into the scale. Caroline must be more 
humane. Rising young man—highly susceptible— 
wholly captivated by our distracting Miss Goose. Any 
young painter with any sort of instinct or Nature’s 
fairest and noblest would have done the same.” 

Cheriton was suddenly interrupted by a sharp exclama¬ 
tion. 

“Why,” cried Caroline, “the picture has been taken 
away!” 

Marchbanks was summoned. 

“Two men from Peabody’s fetched it nearly an hour 
ago, my lady,” the butler explained. 

“Without my permission,” his mistress stormed. 

“I had no instructions, my lady. I was under the im- 


152 


ARAMINTA 


pression that it was the property of the young painting 
gentleman.” 

“You were under the impression!” 

“Caroline,” said Cheriton gravely, “if you have not 
been properly scored off it looks uncommonly like it. 
Young fellow evidently didn’t allow the grass to grow 
under his feet. He said he would send for it to-morrow, 
but he seems to have changed his mind. Still, in my 
humble view, if you must blame anybody you will do 
well to blame George. If he hadn’t been so devilish 
interesting on the subject of the Militia it could never 
have happened.” 


CHAPTER XVI 
HYDE PARK 


L ITTLE recked Jim Lascelles of the train of cir¬ 
cumstances which enabled his precious half- 
finished work to return to its maker. When it 
arrived at his hermitage at Laxton that afternoon he 
merely saw in its premature return one affront the more. 
He took it for granted that the old woman of Hill Street 
had ordered it out of her house. 

“An absolutely inconceivable old cat!” Jim assured his 
mother with great truculence. 

“I am afraid so, my son,” was the sage reply. “Power 
is so bad for poor Female Us.” 

“She has ruined me,” said Jim miserably. “She and 
that infernal temper of mine.” 

“Temper is feminine too, my son,” said the mother 
profoundly. “She invariably plays Old Harry when she 
gets hold of the reins.” 

Jim’s mother had recently tried to eke out her slender 
means by writing a novel. That, at least, is the only 
explanation as to how she came to be so wise. 

Jim was woefully gloomy for many days. He felt 
that by his unlucky outburst he had irretrievably ruined 
his prospects. And they were getting suddenly so bright 
that they had almost dazzled him. Not only had he for¬ 
feited the hundred pounds which Lord Cheriton had 
promised him for a faithful copy of the Gainsborough, 
but doubtless, after such an unlucky exhibition of temper, 
Lord Kendal’s daughter Priscilla would choose to be 
painted by somebody else. 


i53 


154 


ARAMINTA 


This, however, was not the worst. The Goose Girl 
had passed clean out of his ken. Henceforth he would 
be debarred the sight of the Gainsborough hat, the lilac 
frock, and the full-fledged cream-bun appearance. She 
had driven the unfortunate youth so nearly to distraction 
that while he found it impossible to expel her from his 
thoughts, he could not summon the force of will to un¬ 
lock the door of the studio he had caused to be set up 
in the small Laxton back garden. It was like baring a 
nerve to gaze upon the half-finished canvas, which now 
could never be complete. 

By nature Jim Lascelles was a bright and cheery soul. 
But the fact that he had destroyed his prospects “just as 
things were coming his way” by one rash act made him 
extremely unhappy. It needed all Mrs. Lascelles’ gay 
courage and invincible optimism to keep Jim steady 
during these days of trial. 

“Finish the creature out of your head,” was her coun¬ 
sel, “then forget that she ever existed.” 

“Nay,” said Jim. “Either I must put in all I know 
or stick a knife through the canvas.” 

He brooded dreadfully upon the subject. Dark lines 
came under his eyes; he smoked too much and ate too 
little. 

“I must and I will see her,” he said. 

“The true spirit, my son,” said his mother approvingly. 

It is a nice point whether she ought to have openly 
approved such a course of action. It was very necessary, 
all the same, to rouse Jim from the lethargy that was 
making his life unbearable. From the mere resolution 
he seemed to derive a certain inward power. 

The next morning Jim made his way to Hyde Park. 
It was now June, and the park was looking its best, with 
the trees, the rhododendrons and the ladies in full bloom. 
For some time the young man stood by the railings with 


HYDE PARK 


155 


a sort of undefined hope in his mind that he would be 
rewarded for his pilgrimage. Then he walked slowly in 
the Knightsbridge direction; and confronted by so much 
fine plumage, he began to wish ruefully that his navy 
blue suit did not shine quite so much and that his straw 
hat was not in its third season. 

He was still hopeful, however. He took a careful 
survey of the riders. Somewhat oddly, his attention 
was attracted to a heavy, red-faced, rather stupid-looking 
man who was pounding along on a gray horse. His 
appearance was perfectly familiar to Jim Lascelles, yet 
for the moment he could not remember where and when 
he had seen him. 

It was with a curious mingling of satisfaction and dis¬ 
gust that Jim was able to recall the red-faced man’s 
identity. He stopped and turned his eyes to follow that 
solemn progress. Yes, it was undoubtedly he. And 
there at the Apsley House corner was a chestnut horse, 
tall, proud, upstanding, crowned by a royal creature, in 
her turn crowned by the light of the morning. At a 
respectful distance of thirty paces was Mr. Bryant, seated 
as upright as his own cockade on a rather less magnificent 
charger. Even he, a man of exclusive instincts, did not 
attempt to veil a legitimate pride in his company. Not 
for many moons had he seen aught to compare with the 
wonderful Miss Perry. 

The eyes of Jim grew dark as they followed the man 
with the red face and marked his informal greeting of 
the Goose Girl. Envy is an ignoble passion, but it has 
to be confessed that the young fellow swore to himself 
softly. Then he took out his watch, one of those ad¬ 
mirable American one-and-a-half dollar affairs, guaran¬ 
teed to keep correct time for quite a long period. 

“Three minutes past eleven,” said he. “Oho, my 
merry man!” 


ARAMINTA 


156 

Just what Jim Lascelles meant by that mystic remark 
who shall say? But it seemed to please him. He then 
observed that the little cavalcade had turned the corner 
and had started to come slowly down by the railings upon 
the left. 

Jim stood to await it with a beating heart. It was 
rather poor behavior, but he was in a desperate and de¬ 
fiant mood. 

“Five to one she cuts you,” Jim muttered. “Two to 
one she cuts you dead. They are all alike when they 
mount the high horse.” 

As Jim Lascelles awaited the oncoming cavalcade he 
no longer thought ruefully of his old straw hat and his 
shabby suit. They were now dear to him as the livery 
of impending martyrdom. 

Gobo hugged the railings. He was so close that he 
nearly touched Jim with his spurs—dummy spurs as that 
keen observer noted. Miss Perry was explaining that 
all the girls had white frocks at Buckingham Palace, and 
how much she wished that Muffin had been there, as a 
white frock always suited her, although she generally 
tore it to rags, when Miss Featherbrain was accosted by 
the steady and unflinching gaze of Jim Lascelles. In¬ 
stantly her hand went up, not one of darned cotton, but 
a yellow gauntletted affair that matched her hair, in quite 
the regulation Widdiford manner. 

“Why—why—it’s Jim. Plello, Jim !” 

In the ear of Jim Lascelles the incomparably foolish 
speech had never sounded so absurd and so delicious. 
It was clearly the intention of Miss Perry to hold 
animated discourse with the undeniably handsome young 
man who returned her greeting. But the intervention 
of the highest branch of the peerage, as solemn as the 
British constitution and as solid too, between her and 
the railings, and the fact that there was a resolutely on- 


HYDE PARK 


157 


coming rearguard in the person of the scandalized Mr. 
Bryant, who in his own mind was reasonably sure that 
the presumptuous youth by the railings had no connection 
with the peerage whatever, sufficed to keep Miss Perry 
in the straight path. 

Therefore Jim Lascelles had no content with one of 
the old Widdiford smiles, which nevertheless was en¬ 
chanting, and a parting wave of the yellow gauntlet, 
which was the perfection of friendliness, comradeship, 
and natural simplicity. He stood to watch the cavalcade 
pass slowly along the Row, the superb chestnut and its 
rider the observed of all observers, for both were great 
works of Nature, elemental but magnificent. The red¬ 
faced and stolid personage on the gray, a more sophis¬ 
ticated pair, were yet well in the picture also, for if less 
majestic, they too were in their way imposing. 

Jim’s reverie was interrupted by a voice at his 
elbow. 

“There they go,” it said, “the most ill-assorted pair 
in England.” 

With a start of surprise Jim turned, to discover an 
exquisite beside him. Cheriton was wearing a light 
gray frock coat with an exaggerated air of fashion. 

“Crabbed age and youth,” said Jim, yet quite without 
bitterness. He was still glowing with pleasure at his 
frank and friendly recognition. 

“A pitiful sight,” said Cheriton. “A man of his age! 
How odd it is that some men are born without a sense of 
the incongruous!” 

Jim agreed. 

“Gal looks well outside a horse. Very well indeed. 
Pity that old ruffian should ruin so fair a picture.” 

Cheriton seemed ready to criticize his rival’s style of 
horsemanship. Reluctantly, however, he forbore to do 
so. For George, in spite of his weight and his years, 


ARAMINTA 


158 

was still able to make a creditable appearance in the 
saddle. 

“Do you know, sir,” said Jim, “I’m rather sorry that 
I didn’t attempt an equestrian portrait.” 

Cheriton's brows went up. 

“Upon my word,” said he, “you are uncommonly bold 
to mention the word ‘portrait.’ ” 

“I quite agree with you,” said Jim. 

He laughed rather bitterly. Cheriton assumed the 
paternal air which sat so well upon him. 

“My friend,” said he, “at school your father was at 
great pains to imbue me with the elements of wisdom, 
and I feel that fact entitles me to a little plain speaking.” 

“Go on, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim gloomily. “Rub 
it in.” 

My lord assumed the air of a “head beak.” “I am 
afraid, Lascelles,” he said, “your conduct merits censure 
in the highest degree.” 

“It has received it,” said Jim. “I’ve been kicking my¬ 
self for a hot-headed fool ever since the thing happened.” 

“One is almost afraid,” said Cheriton ruefully, “that 
it is beyond forgiveness. Really, Lascelles, making due 
allowance for the fact that your father was one of the 
hastiest men I ever met, and allowing further for the 
fact that the manner of my old friend is, shall we say? 
a little abrupt, your behavior amounts neither more nor 
less than to suicide.” 

“As far as that old Gorgon of a woman is concerned,” 
said Jim stoutly, “I have no regrets. I should act again 
in the same way if I were faced by the same position. 
But I know it was very unwise. As for the portrait, 
I intend, by hook or by crook, to finish it.” 

“Well, my friend,” said his mentor, giving the young 
man’s arm a kindly parting pat, “do what you can; and 
when the chef-d’ceuvre is complete you must let me see it.” 


HYDE PARK 


159 


It was a new Jim Lascelles who returned to Laxton 
by the twelve-thirty from Victoria and took luncheon 
with his mother. He called at the greengrocer’s just as 
you get out of the station, and arrived at The Acacias 
with divers choice fruits of the earth in divers paper bags. 
He hummed the favorite air in the very latest musical 
comedy, while he proceeded to make a salad with a tech¬ 
nic acquired in Paris. He had been initiated into it by 
Monsieur Bonnat, the famous chef of the Hotel Brin- 
villiers. And it so happened that Mrs. Lascelles, who 
spoiled her only child completely, had purchased a lobster, 
which she really couldn’t afford in the present state of 
her finances and the current price of that delicacy, to 
cheer Jim up a bit. 

“My dear,” said Jim, “let us have the last bottle of 
the Johannisberg.” 

A demure little maid-of-all-work, Miranda by name, 
was magnificently asked to produce the same. 

“Pity ’tis the last,” sighed Jim. And then toasting 
his mother, “May those blighted publishers learn to ap¬ 
preciate a very remarkable literary genius, my dear.” 

“They do, my son. That is the trouble.” 

“It’s a rattling good story, anyhow.” 

“Certainly it ends as every self-respecting and well- 
conducted story ought to end. But as to literary genius, 
that’s another pair of shoes. The divine spark simply 
isn’t there.” 

“Oh, indeed!” Jim brought down his fist upon the 
table fiercely. 

“Dear fellow! At any rate, I am enough of a genius 
to like appreciation. But with you, my son, it’s another 
story. You really are ‘the goods’ as they say in 
America.” 

“They are t’other side of the table, my dear.” 

“But the Real Right Thing is outside in the garden 


i6o 


ARAMINTA 


waiting for the hand of the master to complete her.” 

“Hand of the master, forsooth! You pile it on ‘a 
leetle beet tick’ as Monsieur Gillet would say. But I’ll 
let you into a secret. I saw the Goose Girl this morning.” 

“Of course you did, dear boy.” 

“How did you guess?” 

“The step on the gravel told me.” 

“You are wonderful, you know.” 

“That vain, wicked, foolish, and depraved Goose! In 
Hyde Park this morning you met her walking with her 
duke, and she gave you a smile, and if she was more than 
usually absurd, she said, ‘Why, it’s Jim!’ ” 

“She was a cheval. But you are wonderful, aren’t 
you now?” 

“And pray how did the great overgrown creature look 
outside a horse?” 

“One could never have believed it. She was on a 
glorious chestnut, a mountain of a beast, a noble stepper; 
and in a smart new habit and a coquettish billycock— 
think on it, my dear, the Goose Girl in a billycock!—she 
was a sight for the gods.” 

“Yes, just the creature to set High Olympus in a roar.” 

“And to the manner born, mark you. And to think 
she acquired the art of equitation in the home paddock 
at Widdiford on that screw of the governor’s.” 

“Poor dear Melancthon was by no means a screw, 
I assure you. A horse of pedigree. By Martin Luther 
out of Moll Cutpurse.” 

“I humbly beg his pardon, I’m sure. That explains 
the Goose Girl’s proficiency. She certainly looked this 
morning as if she could never condescend to anything 
less than the blood of Carbine.” 

“The secret of the whole matter, my son,” said Jim’s 
mother profoundly, “is that the Female Us is so mar¬ 
velously adaptable. If She is really well turned out on 


HYDE PARK 


161 


a fine June morning and all London gazing at Her, if 
She never learned to sit aught but a rocking-horse, She 
would still contrive to look as though She had won the 
whole gymkhana. That’s the quality which maketh Puss 
so soon get too big for her dancing slippers.” 

“Well, you wise woman, the Goose Girl would have 
taken all the prizes this morning. And she didn’t even 
cut me.” 

“Cut you, my son. Gott im himmel! that Goose cut 
you indeed!” 

“There are not many Goose Girls that wouldn’t have 
in the circumstances. But she is True Blue. And I 
am going to finish her portrait and make her permanently 
famous.” 

Jim’s mother tilted the last of the Johannisberg into 
his glass. 

“Excellent, my son. Go in and win. Lavish your 
genius upon her. Earn fortune and renown, and buy 
back the Red House at Widdiford.” 

“And in the meantime she will have married that old 
fossil and borne him three children.” 

“Oh, no, she will not,” said the voice of the temptress, 
“if first you make her promise you.” 

“But that wouldn’t be cricket, my dear, with her people 
so miserably poor and James Lascelles by no means 
affluent; and the old fossil with a house in Piccadilly and 
another in Notts and another in Fife, and a yacht in the 
Solent and a box at the Opera and a mausoleum at Kensal 
Green. No, my dear, Pm afraid it wouldn’t be playing* 
the game.” 

Thereupon Jim’s mother exposed herself to the censure 
of all self-respecting people. Said she- 

“Nor would it be playing the game for that perfect dear 
of a Goose to have her youth, her beauty, and her gayety 
bought by a wordly old wretch who ought to be a grand- 



ARAMINTA 


162 

father. Come, sir, she awaits her very parfit gentil 
knight.” 

But Jim shook his head solemnly. 

“No, my dear, I’m afraid it won’t do.” 

Nevertheless, as soon as luncheon was over, Jim took 
the studio key off the dining-room chimney piece and 
went forth to the primitive wooden erection in the back 
garden. The key turned stiffly in the lock. It was 
nearly three weeks since he had entered it last. For 
several hours he worked joyfully, touching and retouch¬ 
ing the picture and improvising small details out of his 
head. And all the time the Goose Girl smiled upon him 
in the old Widdiford manner. Her hair had never 
looked so yellow, her eyes had never looked so blue. 


CHAPTER XVII 


STARTLING DEVELOPMENT OF THE 

FEMALE US 

T HE next morning a little before eleven Miss 
Perry, in the care of the admirable Mr. Bryant, 
was approaching Apsley House, when the figure 
of a solitary horseman was to be seen. There was some¬ 
thing about this apparition which fixed Miss Perry’s 
attention. Suddenly she gave a little exclamation. The 
horseman was Jim Lascelles. 

Jim received a most affectionate greeting. 

“You are just in time,” said he. “It is a near thing. 
Gobo is yonder in the offing. I was afraid he would 
get here before you.” 

Miss Perry was delighted if a little perplexed by the 
suggestion that Jim put forward. It was that they 
should go down the left while Gobo rode up the right. 
“But I pr-r-r-omised Gobo,” she said. 

“Look here, Goose Girl,” said Jim with tremendous 
resolution, “do you suppose I have invested the last half- 
sovereign I have in the world on the worst hack in 
London to be cut out by that old duffer? Come on 
round, you Goose, before he gets up.” 

Really Miss Perry is hardly to be blamed. Once Jim 
Lascelles had made up his mind he was will power incar¬ 
nate. Jim’s horse, a nondescript who does not merit 
serious notice, walked a few paces briskly, the chestnut 
followed its example, as chestnuts will, and the next thing 

was that Jim’s horse broke into a canter. The chestnut 

163 


164 


ARAMINTA 


did likewise. Of course, it was Miss Perry's business 
to see that it did nothing of the sort. However, she 
failed in her obvious duty. And then, so swift is the 
road to perdition, in less time than it takes to record the 
fact, the chestnut and the nondescript began simply to fly 
down Rotten Row. 

It was a golden morning of June, and such things 
happen constantly at that vernal season. But as the 
four pairs of irresponsible hoofs came thundering by, 
flinging up the tan in all directions and nearly knocking 
over a policeman, equestrians of both sexes and pedes¬ 
trians too stared in amazed disapproval. If not abso¬ 
lutely contrary to the park regulations, it was certainly 
very wrong behavior. 

There is every reason to believe that the opinion of 
that high authority, Mr. Bryant, was even more uncom¬ 
promising. Not for an instant did he try to cope with 
the pace that had been set. He was content sadly to 
watch his charge get farther and farther away. He then 
turned to look back at the man with the red face, who 
had just arrived at the turn. 

That high personage, who could not see at all well 
without his spectacles, halted at the turn and looked in 
vain for Caroline Crewkerne’s niece. His friend Cheri- 
iton, who had entered the park just in time to be au 
courant with all that had happened, accosted him cheer¬ 
fully. 

“Doctor’s orders, George?” 

“Ye—es,” said George, rather gruffly. 

“I warned you years ago, my dear fellow, that any 
man who drinks port in the middle of the day as a 
regular thing can count later in life on a martyr’s 
crown.” 

George looked decidedly cross. He peered to the 
right and he peered to the left. The ever-receding pair 


DEVELOPMENT OF THE FEMALE US 165 

were now undecipherable to stronger eyes than those of 
his Grace. 

“Seen a gal anywhere ?” he inquired rather irritably. 
There never was a duke since the creation of the order 
who could bear to be kept waiting. 

“Eve seen several/’ said his friend with an air of pre¬ 
ternatural innocence. 

“I mean that gal of Caroline Crewkerne’s.” 

“I was not aware that she had one.” 

“Tall, bouncin’ gal,” said his Grace. “Ginger hair.” 

“Ginger hair!” said Cheriton. “Tall, bouncin' girl! 
Can you mean my ward, Miss Perry?” 

“Your ward! What d’ye mean, Cheriton?” 

“Caroline Crewkerne seems to think,” said Cheriton 
coolly, “that I shall serve the best interests of a lonely 
and unprotected but extraordinary prepossessing girlhood 
if I act, as it were, in loco parentis during Miss Perry’s 
sojourn in the vast metropolis.” 

George began to gobble furiously. It was a sign, 
however, that his mind was working. It was extremely 
difficult to set such heavy mechanism in motion. 

“If it comes to that,” said he, “I should say I am quite 
as capable of looking after the gal as you are.” 

Cheriton, with genial candor, declared that to be a 
matter of opinion. “Caroline seems to think, my dear 
fellow, that somehow I am better suited to the task.” 

“Are you though?” said the stubborn George. 

“Caroline seems to think,” said Cheriton modestly, 
“that I am the ideal age for knowledge of the world to 
dedicate itself to the cause of innocence, beauty and ex¬ 
treme youth.” 

“Goin’ to marry the gal, are you?” said George bluntly. 

Some men are terribly blunt by nature. 

“The exigencies of the case may render even that 
course expedient,” said Cheriton rather forensically. 


ARAMINTA 


166 

“But in any event, my dear George, speaking with 
perfect frankness, one is inclined to doubt the seemliness 
of the open pursuit by a man of your age of a wayside 
flower.” 

“What d’ye mean, Cheriton?” said George with a 
gobble more furious than he had yet achieved. 

“What I really mean, my dear fellow, is that you are 
no longer able to indulge in the pleasures of the chase 
without your spectacles. Had you been armed with 
those useful if not particularly ornamental adjuncts to 
the human countenance, you would have been able to 
observe that the wonderful Miss Perry—whose hair, by 
the way, is yellow—was spirited away exactly ninety 
seconds before you arrived on the scene.” 

“Who took her?” By now George Betterton had 
grown purple with suppressed fury. 

“A young fellow took her,” said Cheriton. “A smart, 
dashing, well-set-up young fellow took her, my dear 
George. He simply rode up, tossed her the handkerchief, 
and away they set off hell for leather. They are now at 
the Albert Memorial.” 

As soon as this information was conveyed to George 
Betterton he did a vain and foolish thing. Without so 
much as another word he set off in pursuit. It was 
supremely ridiculous that he should do any such thing. 
But it is surprising how soon a balanced mind loses its 
poise, how soon the most accomplished performer top¬ 
ples off the high wire of sanity and discretion. The 
sight of George pursuing the runaways with a haste that 
was almost as unseemly as their own was certainly ro¬ 
mantic. And at the same time it was an aperitif for the 
amateur of the human heart who was responsible for 
George’s behavior. 

Cheriton stood to watch and to laugh sardonically. 
In charming fashion the marionette had begun to answer 


DEVELOPMENT OF THE FEMALE US 167 

to the strings. He promised to excel all anticipation. 

In the meantime young blood was away like the wind. 
Faster and faster it went. This was higher, deeper, 
more exhilarating than any of the old Widdiford mad¬ 
nesses. It was in vain that the British public looked 
pained and that the London police looked important. 
This was a crowded hour of glorious life; and if at long 
last all things are to be as if they had not been, there were 
at least two children of mortal men who felt the cosmos 
had really done very well indeed to get itself invented. 

However, these divine moments at best are only too 
brief. The nondescript soon began to hang out signals 
of distress. 

“Bellows to mend/’ said Jim. 

Miss Perry had some difficulty in checking the chestnut. 

“Jim,” she cried breathlessly, “he is almost as strong 
as your papa’s pedigree hunter.” 

“We’ve done a record, I think, from the Red House 
to the Parsonage,” said Jim. 

Even when they turned to ride back their high spirits 
received no check. If pitched in a key less emotional, 
the crowded glorious hour still endured. But Jim’s 
nondescript was no longer quite equal to the earlier 
rapture. 

“Goose Girl, do you know I have made a resolution?” 

“Have you, Jim?” 

“I have made up my mind to finish that portrait of 
you in your Gainsborough gown.” 

“Of course, Jim,” said Miss Perry. 

“That picture is to be a masterpiece, you know.” 

“Is it, Jim?” said Miss Perry. 

“It is.” Jim’s finality was tremendous. “And when 
it has made me famous, what do you suppose I am going 
to do?” 

“I don’t know, Jim,” said Miss Perry. 


ARAMINTA 


168 

“Guess.” 

Miss Perry knitted her brows in sheer perplexity. 

“Marry Muffin.” 

“What, marry the Ragamuffin!” said Jim scornfully. 

“She is prettier than Polly.” 

“But she is such a Ragamuffin; and she has never an 
incredible hat and a Gainsborough frock to call her own.” 

“She has her mauve, Jim.” 

“No,” said Jim with decision; “in spite of her mauve, 
I decline to marry the Ragamuffin.” 

Miss Perry looked vastly disappointed. 

“Milly is too young, Jim.” 

Jim pressed the nondescript. The ice was getting 
desperately thin. And every moment the light of the 
morning was making it thinner. 

“Goose Girl, do you remember that once you promised 
to marry me?” 

“Yes, Jim, I did,” said Miss Perry, “if you got those 
three large pears off the William pear tree at the Red 
House at Widdiford.” 

“I got them off all right,” said Jim. “But instead of 
receiving your hand in matrimony I got a proper good 
hiding.” 

“The pears were awfully nice though,” said the 
daughter of Eve. 

The High Personage who controls the limelight began 
to play most embarrassing tricks with the light of the 
morning. The hapless Jim Lascelles knew he was no 
match for that Master Hand. 

“Goose Girl,” said Jim defiantly, “assuming for a 
moment that I made myself famous enough to buy back 
the Red House at Widdiford, with the strawberry beds, 
the orchards, and the old lych-gate that opens on the 
back lane which takes you straight to the Vicarage—* 
would you keep the promise that you made when you 


DEVELOPMENT OF THE FEMALE US 169 


were a long-legged creature of seven, with an enormous 
appetite, and I was a freckled and chubby youth of thir¬ 
teen and a half with horribly thin trousers.” 

“Yes, Jim, I would,” said Miss Perry, with promp¬ 
titude, frankness and sincerity. 

“There now, I’ve done it,” groaned Jim. “It was 
bound to happen. I knew the Royal Daylight would 
force me to make a cad of myself before it was through 
with its sticks. But if people will have yellow hair and 
they will wear yellow gauntlets to match it, and it is the 
will of Allah that the limelight be split all over the place, 
how can a poor painting chap help himself?” 

Miss Perry grew very serious. She was silent for 
twenty-five seconds. 

“Jim,” she said with great solemnity, “if you do marry 
anybody I r-r-r-really think it ought to be Muffin.” 

“That Ragamuffin.” 

“She is too sweet, Jim,” said Miss Perry. “And she is 
ever so pretty; and dearest papa thinks she might be 
clever; and of course you know, Jim, I am ra-ther a 
Silly.” 

“All the world knows it.” 

“And Muffin always said she would just love to live 
at the Red House at Widdiford.” 

“Goose Girl, I am afraid you are deep. You want to 
marry Gobo.” 

“Not r-r-really,” said Miss Perry, wide-eyed with 
earnestness. “Of course he is a sweet, but—but of 
course, Jim, he is not like you are.” 

“Thanks very much for the information. But tell 
me. Goose Girl, wouldn’t you like to be a duchess?” 

“Oh no, Jim.” 

“Why not, you Goose?” 

“It sounds rather silly.” 

“So it does, now you come to mention it. But con- 


170 


ARAMINTA 


sider all the wonderful frocks and jewels you would 
have, and the wonderful houses and the wonderful 
horses, and the wonderful ices of every conceivable color 
and flavor. And as for cream buns, a duchess can have 
as many as she requires.” 

“I would rather have the Red House at Widdiford.” 

“Really,” said Jim, “you are the most tremendous 
thing in Geese. Just think what you could do if you 
were a duchess. You could buy old books and new 
vestments for your papa; Muffin could have a new mauve 
frock; Polly could marry her curate and boast of her 
sister Mrs. Strawberry-leaf; and Milly could pay more 
attention to hockey and Persian kittens and less to knit¬ 
ting and self-improvement; and as for Dickie and Char¬ 
ley, one could go to Sandhurst and the other to Oxford, 
and both end in the Dictionary of National Biography 

The blue eyes of Miss Perry opened in sheer dazzle- 
ment to dimensions that were perfectly astonishing. 

“It would be awfullv nice,” said she; “but Jim—” 

“Well?” 

“I did pr-r-romise, didn’t I ?” 

“You would never have got those pears if you hadn’t.” 

As they neared the turn at Hyde Park Corner they 
began unconsciously to pull themselves together. The 
accusing figure of Mr. Bryant awaited them. Lord 
Cheriton too was only a little way off. He stood by 
the railings, a picture of outraged delicacy. 

When the runaways came alongside he held both hands 
before his face with a gesture of dismay. 

“I am dumb,” he said. 

Jim Lascelles appeared to be smitten with a similar 
infirmity. As for Miss Perry, the instincts of her sex 
at once took charge of the situation. 

“Have you seen Gobo?” she demanded breathlessly. 
Nothing could have been more disarming than the 


DEVELOPMENT OF THE FEMALE US 171 


blend of absolute innocence and disinterested concern. 

“I could never have believed it,” said Cheriton with a 
pained air. “The guile, the duplicity.” 

“Have you seen him?” Miss Perry demanded. 

“Have I seen Gobo? I have seen a roaring lion in 
the guise of a rampant turkey cock.” 

“It is an awful pity. We missed him.” 

Cheriton felt that such gravely sweet concern was 
never seen in any human countenance. To have ques¬ 
tioned its sincerity would have been barbarism. 

“Yes, a great pity,” Cheriton assented. “Particularly 
for men of a rather full habit of body who are decidedly 
short in the neck.” 

“Do you think Gobo will mind?” said Miss Perry. 
“You see Jim”—the handle of Jim’s crop was ominously 
near to her knee—“Mr. Lascelles came up, and we 
thought if we went down we should be sure to meet Gobo, 
but we didn’t.” 

“Lascelles,” said my lord, “isn’t it time you began to 
play up a bit? Miss Araminta’s lucidity is delicious, 
but somehow one feels that it needs eking out a little. 
Your version will be interesting.” 

“My horse, sir, cost half-a-sovereign which I couldn’t 
afford,” was the rather lame response, “and I thought 
as it was a fine morning I had better have my money’s 
worth.” 

Cheriton’s smile expanded to the dimensions of his 
necktie. 

“Yes,” said he, laughing, “this sort of thing is best 
left to the ladies. The version of Miss Goose was 
pitched in just the right key. It clearly suggested that 
no shadow of blame rested upon either of you. Un¬ 
happily your version does not tend to exonerate you 
equally. I confess, Lascelles, that upon my mind it 
leaves quite an unfortunate impression.” 


172 


ARAMINTA 


“The truth is,” said Jim, “I am seeking a fresh store 
of inspiration to complete a chef d’oeuire.” 

“I think it should be a masterpiece undoubtedly.” 

“I think so too, Lord Cheriton.” 

Miss Perry’s far-seeing, West-country eyes were 
searching the far horizon. 

“Gobo is coming,” she said thrillingly. 

“Which way?” 

“He is coming up on the right. Don’t you see him?” 

Jim had to strain his gaze. 

“By Jove, you are right!” said he. “What wonderful 
eyes you have, Miss Perry.” 

“One seems to remember,” said Cheriton, “that Red 
Riding Hood made a similar observation to the wolf, 
or was it the wolf who made the observation to Red 
Riding Hood?” 

“Better be going, I think,” said Jim. “This quaint 
beast of mine seems to have got his wind back.” 

“Has he, Jim?” said Miss Perry. 

The nondescript took a turn to the left. In the most 
natural manner the chestnut followed suit. On this 
occasion, however, the distance between the Vicarage and 
the Red House at Widdiford was not accomplished in 
quite such record time. All the same, for the greater 
part of the way the pace was decidedly hot. 

“Seen anything of the lady, George?” inquired his 
friend as soon as he came up. 

The thundercloud visage of his Grace was the color 
of doom. 

“I saw a cloud of dust just now. There was a ginger¬ 
haired gal in it going at a dooce of a rattle.” 

“I can’t imagine my ward Miss Perry attempting 
anything in the nature of a rattle.” 

“Can’t you?” sourly grunted George Betterton. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


FASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS 

J IM LASCELLES was inclined to regard his morm 
ing as a great success. True, it had cost him the 
last half-sovereign he had in the world, but there 
[was no doubt it had been invested to full advantage. 
New inspiration had sprung from that memorable ride. 
For a whole week the recollection of it sustained him. 
His days were given up to joyous labor in the back 
garden. 

“I shall make something of her after all,” said he. 
One morning when he came down to breakfast he 
found a letter at the side of his plate. The envelope 
had rather an air. Upon the back of it was a coronet. 
“What ho!” said Jim. 

A pair of eyes by no means ill found in the wisdom 
of this world had duly noted these details. 

“The correspondent of dukes! Which of them, 
my son?” 

Jim tossed the contents of the envelope across the 
table with a grin. 

Dear Lascelles,—The art of the age seems clearly to 
call for the presence at The Acacias of the wonderful j 
Miss Perry. Unless the fates are adverse—which ac¬ 
cording to Juvenal they are sometimes—she will appear 
about 4.30 o'clock to-morrow ( Tuesday ) afternoon to 
claim in her own person a cup of tea, together with two 
lumps of sugar and one cream bun, Gunter’s large size. 

173 


174 


ARAMINTA 


Forgive the scant notice. Our old and common friend 
did not develop sufficiently marked symptoms of laryngitis 
until this morning to submit to the decree of her medical 
adviser. He has ordered her to keep her bed. The 
accomplished Miss Burden accompanies us in an official 
capacity. Ponto does not. 

Sincerely yours, 

Cheriton. 

P.S.—Strawberries and cream are known to be very 
delectable. 

Mrs. Lascelles was vastly amused. 

“Never tell me, my son, that an indulgent Providence 
does not watch over the humblest suburban. Three per¬ 
sons of fashion are descending upon us, and the Miss 
Champneys are sure to pay a call—they always pay a 
call—this afternoon.” 

“Those old guys,” said Jim. “I hope not.” 

“Learn, my son, to be more respectful towards the two 
great ladies of our neighborhood, the real live daughters 
of a dean lately deceased.” 

“I beg their pardon, I’m sure.” 

“The great world is unsettling you, my boy. I’m 
afraid you are already beginning to patronize a ridiculous 
old frump like me.” 

“Beginning!” 

“But please remember I am determined not to be 
patronized in my own house by your friend the duke.” 

“Oh! he won’t try to. He’s a very civil old thing.” 

“I won’t be patronized by that Goose either.” 

“You’re in no danger from her. She’ll be fully oc¬ 
cupied with the strawberries and cream.” 

“And who, pray, is the accomplished Miss Burden? 
I will not be patronized by her either.” 


FASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS 175 

“I won’t answer for you there, senora. You may get 
short shrift from that quarter.” 

“We shall see, my son,” said Jim’s mother almost 
with truculence. 

The drawing-room at The Acacias was really a very 
mediocre affair. It had so little furniture that it was 
made to look half as large again as it actually was. The 
small room was cool and tasteful, but there was hardly 
a suggestion of bygone grandeur. For one thing, “the 
crash” had been rather in the nature of a holocaust, and 
an opulent past does not help a penurious present. 

The walls were decorated by a blue wash and by a 
single picture, a study by Monsieur Gillet for his en¬ 
chanting “La Dame au Gant.” It had been given by 
that master to a young English pupil of whom he proph¬ 
esied great things. Then there was a little shelf of 
books, comprising five novels of Turgeniev, two by 
Stendhal, three by Anatole France, four by Meredith, 
three by Henry James, two volumes of Heine, the lyrics 
of Victor Hugo, two plays of DAnnunzio and a volume 
of Swinburne. There were two bowls of roses also, 
which Jim procured in honor of the occasion. 

At a quarter to four Mrs. Lascelles sat reading La 
Chartreuse de Parme for the thirteenth time. She looked 
charm incarnate in a soft black dress, embellished with 
white muslin. Her look of youth was quite aggressive, 
and in Jim’s opinion her furtive smile of tempered 
gayety was perfectly irresistible. 

“My dear,” said Jim censoriously, “it is time you made 
a serious effort to look older.” 

“I do try so hard,” said Mrs. Lascelles plaintively. 
“This is positively the most frumpish frock I possess, 
and I have done my hair over my ears on purpose.” 

“Haven’t you an older frock?” 

“This one is decidedly the elder of my only two.” 

“How old is it?” 


176 


ARAMINTA 


“Seven years.” 

“And what is the age of the other one?” 

“A mere infant. It is only five.” 

“Then it is high time you had a new one.” 

“It is not usual, I believe, for a woman to get a new 
frock for the purpose of making herself look older.” 

“But then you are a most unusual woman.” 

“I don’t in the least want to be unusual. If there is 
one thing I dislike more intensely than another it is an 
unusual woman.” 

“Then you are very perverse. I wonder what effect it 
would have if you did your hair higher?” 

“I will try if you like; but I know—” 

“What do you know?” said Jim sternly. 

“That I never look quite so maternal as when I have 
it over my ears.” 

“Well, it’s a serious matter. I look like being driven 
to get a new mother.” 

“There’s a scarcity of good ones, my son.” 

Jim scanned the tiny room with the eye of criticism. 

“I’m afraid we have an air of cheap gentility,” said 
Mrs. Lascelles. “But let no one sneer at it. Gentility 
of any kind is quite an honorable aspiration.” 

“I wonder,” said Jim, “if there is anybody in the 
neighborhood who would lend us a Debrett for the after¬ 
noon ? It might grace the middle of the room, upon that 
small Chinese table.” 

The front doorbell was heard to ring. 

“Too late, too late,” said Mrs. Lascelles dramatically. 
“Debrett is here already.” 

“It is the Miss Champneys,” said Jim. 

“Alas, no! It is only twenty past four, and it is so 
much more impressive to pay a call at five.” 

“Two to one it’s la famille Hobson.” 

The countenance of Jim’s mother grew tragic. 


FASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS 177 

Quelle horreur! One had quite forgotten the exist¬ 
ence of lei famille Hobson. Do you really think it can 
be?” 

“I am perfectly sure of it,” said Jim. “This is an 
opportunity it could not possibly miss.” 

Mrs. Lascelles lifted up her voice in lamentation. 

“These things are sent to try us,” said Jim stoically. 
“La famille Hobson has no other reason to be.” 

Mrs. Lascelles was overcome. 

The little maid-of-all-work entered the room. With 
her prim freckled countenance and her hair, which like 
herself was quite unnecessarily pretty, done over a roll, 
she had the furtive air of a cat who is a confirmed cream 
stealer. Moreover, she had the air of one who takes an 
uncanny interest in all the things around her. 

“Miss Burden,” announced Miranda, as though it gave 
her great pleasure to do so. “Miss Perry. Lord Cheri- 
ton.” 

Jim’s mother laid La Chartreuse de Par me upon 
the varnished boards. She rose to greet Miss Perry 
with a suppressed exclamation. In the circumstances it 
was not unnatural, for Miss Perry was looking a 
goddess. 

She took a hand of Miss Perry in each of her own. 
“My dear!” she gasped. 

Miss Perry’s only reply was to proceed to hug Jim’s 
mother in the traditional Widdiford manner. The host¬ 
ess appeared to sustain some little personal inconven¬ 
ience in the process. “But you are wonderful!” she 
gasped. 

Jim presented Miss Burden to his mother with becom¬ 
ing formality. There was always a veiled tenderness 
about the eyes of Miss Burden which somehow rendered 
her oddly attractive. Her air of shyness was an added 
charm. 


178 


ARAMINTA 


“So nice of you to come/’ said Mrs. Lascelles. She 
had fallen in love with Miss Burden at first sight. 

“Lord Cheriton,” said Jim with excellent gravity * 
“may I introduce you to my mother.” 

Bows and a fashionable handshake ensued. And then 
Mrs. Lascelles gazed into the complacent and amused 
countenance of my lord. 

“How can I thank you,” she said, “for your great 
kindness to Jim.” 

My lord denied the great kindness with conventional 
grace, and then said, “What remarkable sunshine for 
London!” 

“The sun is occasionally quite obtrusive at Laxton,” 
said Mrs. Lascelles, lowering the sun blind a little. “You 
will find that the coolest chair, Lord Cheriton.” 

It was really not necessary to offer the coolest chair 
to Lord Cheriton, for he looked cool enough already. 
It was perhaps his most assiduously cultivated and most 
carefully cherished characteristic. However, he took 
the chair Mrs. Lascelles had indicated. He took it al¬ 
most as if he were paying it homage. Choosing a likely 
spot upon the varnished boards upon which to set his top 
hat, he placed it there with rare precision and crossed his 
lavender-trousered legs to display a very immaculate pair 
of white gaiters. Then he fixed a black-rimmed eyeglass 
in the left or more fashionable eye and surveyed his sur¬ 
roundings with an air of benevolence that was really most 
engaging. 

By the time Cheriton appeared to be pleasantly set¬ 
tled and Mrs. Lascelles had fully recovered from the 
effects of Miss Perry’s third hug, she said— 

“Please ring the bell, my son.” 

The little maid-of-all-work entered. 

“Tea, Miranda, please.” 

Miranda embellished this command with an entirely 


FASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS 179 


unnecessary half-curtsey which she was apt to produce 
on state occasions. It was a quite effective little affair, 
although its true place was undoubtedly a comic opera. 

Miss Burden addressed a remark to the hostess. 

“Do you think the exhibition of the Royal Academy is 
as good as the last one?” 

“I think it is better,” said Mrs. Lascelles, “decidedly 
better, don’t you?” 

“That is because there is a picture by a young fellow 
of the name of Lascelles in it,” said Jim. 

“A sufficient reason,” said my lord. 

“The brutes have skyed me though,” said Jim. 

“Jealousy, my dear fellow,” said Cheriton. “The 
Church, the Stage, and the Fine Arts live in perpetual 
dread of the rising generation.” 

“That is so true, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother. 
“I am so glad to hear you say that. Of course it is 
jealousy. Those musty and stereotyped old R.A.’s are 
horribly afraid of young men with new ideas.” 

With the deference of a courtier my lord concurred. 

“My mother expects all the world and his wife to 
proclaim her son’s genius,” said Jim aggrievedly. 

“Personally,” said Cheriton, “I do not find it at all 
hard to obey that condition.” 

“People of taste seldom do,” said Jim’s mother, beam¬ 
ing upon the flatterer. 

The little maid-of-all-work appeared with the tea. 

“Miranda, if Mrs. Hobson calls or Miss Hobson, or 
Miss Hermia Hobson or Miss Hermione Hobson or Mr. 
Hobson or Mr. Herbert Hobson or Mr. Henry Hobson 
calls, I am not at home.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Miranda with an air of 
intelligence and a further display of the comic-opera 
curtsey. 

“Sugar or lemon?” Miss Burden was asked. 


i8o 


ARAMINTA 


She took sugar, a small lump. Miss Perry took two 
lumps, size not stated. 

“I wish these cups were more sensible,” said Mrs. 
Lascelles with a reminiscence and an apology. 

“That cup is absurd, my dear,” said Jim. 

Miss Perry seemed inclined to agree. 

“Fetch the largest cup we have, Miranda, please.” 

“Thank you ever so much, dear Mrs. Lascelles,” said 
Miss Perry. 

Strawberries and cream began the modest feast. But 
a plate of cream buns, Gunter’s large size, specially pro¬ 
cured, was the undoubted piece de resistance of the repast. 
This, however, Jim placed on the chimney piece in a very 
ostentatious manner, indulging as he did so in a classical 
quotation. Lord Cheriton laughed appreciatively; it is 
possible that Miss Burden understood it also, but Mrs. 
Lascelles seemed a little in the dark. As for Miss Perry, 
her ignorance was frank and unabashed. 

“What does it mean?” she demanded with a thrill in 
her voice and her eyes very wide. 

“It means,” said Jim, “that it is better to contemplate 
from afar the rewards of virtue than to partake of them 
prematurely.” 

“A free translation, Lascelles,” said my lord, “credit¬ 
able alike to your scholarship, your literary instinct, and 
your knowledge of human nature.” 

“But you owe me one,” said Miss Perry. “Doesn’t he, 
Lord Cheriton?” 

That peer having reluctantly admitted this to be the 
case, Jim presented Miss Perry with a cream bun on a 
blue china plate. 

“The spotted cake with the almonds on it is absolutely 
topping,” said he, maliciously seeking to embarrass Miss 
Perry with riches. 

“I will try some,” said Miss Perry. 


FASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS 181 


Lord Cheriton took lemon with his tea, also a rusk. 

“Genius is a delightful thing,” said he conversationally. 
“I have a genius for admiring it in others.” 

“I am trying to cultivate it also,” said Jim’s mother. 

“This spotted cake with almonds in it is too awfully 
nice,” proclaimed Miss Perry. 

“The confection with the pink icing and the sugar 
plums is also greatly admired here,” said Jim. 

“May I try some, please?” said Miss Perry with large 
eyes. “Just a weeny piece. Pink icing is too nice, I 
think, don’t you?” 

“I concur,” said Jim, carving a very liberal chunk. 

In almost the same moment a loud peal proceeded 
from the front doorbell. Mrs. Lascelles was hard set 
to conceal her anxiety. 

“I hope,” she said in an aside to Jim, “our small 
Cerberus will prove equal to a frontal attack by la famille 
Hobson.” 

“Not a doubt of that,” said Jim with splendid op¬ 
timism. 

A minute later Miranda entered with an air of singular 
importance. She announced— 

“Lady Charlotte Greg, Miss Champneys, Miss Laetitia 
Champneys.” 

The space of the small room was sensibly diminished 
by the entrance of three ladies. In manner and appear¬ 
ance they were oddly alike. Each had a black and white 
dress with passementerie trimmings, a small toque, a 
feather boa and buttoned boots with flat heels. 

Miss Champneys, whose port was decidedly severe, 
introduced to Mrs. Lascelles her old friend Lady Char¬ 
lotte Greg who was staying with them at The Laurels 
for the purpose of opening the Sale of Work at Saint 
Remigius. Lady Charlotte Greg, the daughter of a 
successful lawyer and the wife of an evangelical bishop, 


ARAMINTA 


182 

conveyed the right degree of distance in her greeting. 
Between a tiny Laxton back drawing-room and the 
Palace at Marchester the distance, after all, is quite 
considerable. 

While these three somewhat large ladies were adjust¬ 
ing themselves to three chairs decidedly on the small side, 
and they were offered tea from a fresh brew duly pro¬ 
cured bv the assiduous Miranda, each lifted a black veil 
to scrutinize the surroundings and the company with a 
rather ruthless eye. 

All three ladies could not help feeling that Mrs. 
Lascelles’ other visitors were overdressed. And in their 
view, to be overdressed was to be guilty of one of the 
cardinal sins. 

Said Miss Laetitia Champneys in a judicious undertone 
to Lady Charlotte Greg: “The girl in that preposterous 
hat with feathers is an actress surely.” 

In the sight of Miss Champneys human degradation 
could hardly go farther. 

Said Lady Charlotte Greg, in an identical tone, to 
Miss Laetitia Champneys: “The person with the eye¬ 
glass is, of course, an actor-manager.” 

Neither Miss Laetitia nor her sister Miss Champneys 
was quite sure what an actor-manager really was; but 
their faith in Lady Charlotte’s knowledge of the world 
was boundless. 

That lady put up her glasses and proceeded to study 
the actor-manager, a rare species of wild fowl of which 
the Close at Marchester was mercifully free. Still the 
actor-manager appeared to suffer no embarrassment. 
He changed his black-rimmed monocle from his left eye 
to his right, which if hardly so fashionable as the other 
one, was rather perversely endowed with better powers 
of vision. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A SOCIAL TRIUMPH 

F OR nearly a minute a battle royal was waged 
between the monocle and the long-handled folders. 
All present, with the exception of Miss Perry, 
who was not in the habit of observing anything, sat in 
silence to observe the issue. It seemed to be a case of 
honors easy. 

“When is the Sale of Work, Lady Charlotte?” the 
hostess suddenly found the spirit to ask. 

The simple question was frostily received by the three 
ladies. As the Sale of Work began on the morrow and 
Mrs. Lascelles had promised to preside over the bran 
tub this was perhaps not unnatural. 

“It begins to-morrow at three o’clock, Mrs. Lascelles,” 
said Miss Champneys coldly. 

“Yes, of course,” said the hostess, “how stupid of 
me! I knew that perfectly well. What I meant to have 
said was, what is the day upon which Lady Charlotte 
will perform the opening ceremony?” 

“The first ’’ said Miss Champneys and Miss Laetitia 
speaking as one. 

“Of course,” said the hostess, involuntarily adding, 
“how stupid of me!” The Miss Champneys were match¬ 
less in putting people in the wrong. “What I should 
have asked was who will perform the ceremony on the 
second day?” 

“The wife of the member,” said Miss Champneys. 
“And on the third?” asked the hostess, only too well 
aware by now that she was floundering badly. 

183 


ARAMINTA 


184 

“Lady Caske,” said Miss Laetitia. 

“The wife of the brewer?” asked Jim. 

Jim’s artless question provoked quite a display of 
hauteur. In the first place it was an act of presumption 
for a young man like Jim to have ventured to ask a ques¬ 
tion at all, and in the second the kind of question he 
asked was typical of the neighborhood. 

“Lady Caske was a Coxby, I believe,” said Miss 
Champneys icily. Her forbears, according to their own 
oral and written testimony, had first appeared in these is¬ 
lands in the train of the Conqueror. 

“Any relation to the parson?” Cheriton casually in¬ 
quired. 

Lady Charlotte Greg rode again into the lists. 

“I am informed that Lady Caske is a niece of the late 
Archbishop Coxby,” said she in a tone and manner which 
for two decades had cowed the minor clergy of the 
diocese. 

“Same feller, no doubt,” said Cheriton. “But I only 
knew him in his capacity of a bore.” 

Each of the three ladies seemed to quiver a little. 

“Pray where did you meet the Archbishop ?” demanded 
Lady Charlotte with dilated nostril. 

“In the House,” said Cheriton. “Terrible bore in the 
House.” 

Lady Charlotte raised her glasses, a fine gesture. 

“The domestic life of Archbishop Coxby was re¬ 
nowned for its simplicity,” she said. 

A pause surcharged with suppressed emotion followed, 
and then the ludicrous drawl of Miss Perry was heard in 
the land. 

“I think a Sale of Work is too sweet,” said that 
Featherbrain. “We always have one once a year in the 
Parish Room at Slocum Magna.” 

The Miss Champneys and Lady Charlotte Greg re- 


A SOCIAL TRIUMPH 


185 


ceived the announcement very coldly indeed, but this was 
without the least effect upon Miss Perry. The fine 
shades of social feeling seemed to mean nothing to her. 

'That is really very interesting, my dear Miss Goose/’ 
said Cheriton in his most melodious manner; “very in¬ 
teresting indeed.” 

“We raised eight pounds, two and nine pence for the 
organ fund last year at Slocum Magna,” drawled Miss 
Perry. 

“Where, pray, is Slocum Magna?” inquired Lady 
Charlotte Greg. 

Miss Perry had learned already that whenever Slocum 
Magna was mentioned in the presence of London people 
the question was inevitable. However, before she could 
take steps to enlighten Lady Charlotte my lord favored 
her with a paternal finger. 

“Permit me, my dear Miss Goose,” he said elaborately. 
“Slocum Magna,” he proceeded with the weighty air of 
one who is no stranger to the Front Bench, “is the next 
village to Widdiford.” 

“And where, pray, is Widdiford?” inquired Lady 
Charlotte Greg. 

“Widdiford,” said Cheriton impressively, “is the place 
where the Red House is and where they haven’t quite 
got the railway, don’t you know.” 

“But it is only three miles away,” chimed Miss Perry. 

The pause which followed, an involuntary tribute to 
the overpowering personality of Lady Charlotte Greg, 
caused Jim’s mother and the Miss Champneys to wonder 
what was going to happen. Miss Perry, however, was 
quite undefeated. 

“Have you seen the horses at the Hippodrome?” she 
inquired. 

Lady Charlotte had not. The Miss Champneys had 
not seen them either. 


ARAMINTA 


186 

‘‘You ought to see them, ,, said Miss Perry with irresist¬ 
ible friendliness. “They play bridge and fire off guns 
and pretend to be dead. I have been nine times.” 

Said Lady Charlotte in the private ear of Miss Laetitia: 
“Too natural for an actress. Her hair and skin bear 
inspection. If she were not so painfully overdressed 
she would be a singularly beautiful girl.” 

“And that curiously artificial person, can you place 
him?” asked Miss Laetitia, who had a passion for exact 
information. 

“An actor-manager, unmistakably,” said Infallibility 
with decision. 

“The father, do you suppose?” inquired the insatiable 
Miss Laetitia. 

“Dear me, no. That girl is a lady.” 

All unwittingly, however, the hostess proceeded to deal 
Infallibility a blow. She made a belated introduction 
of the noble earl. The bowings and the counter-bowings 
had hardly subsided when Miss Perry announced that 
she would like to go to the Sale of Work on the morrow*. 

“You shall, my dear Araminta,” said Cheriton, “pro¬ 
vided we have Lady Charlotte’s assurance that there will 
be no harangue from Parson Coxby’s daughter.” 

“Lady Caske does not appear until Friday,” said Lady 
Charlotte, beginning to thaw, “and I only intend to say 
a few words myself.” 

The disclosure of Cheritoirs identity seemed to human¬ 
ize Lady Charlotte and the Miss Champneys considerably. 
Things went now so swimmingly that the tea party ex¬ 
panded to the nature of a social triumph. It was a 
great afternoon for Jim’s mother. The Miss Champneys 
became singularly agreeable; Lady Charlotte also con¬ 
trived to soften the first impression she had made. 

Miss Burden asked, of malice prepense, whether these 
ladies had seen Mr. Lascelles’ picture at the Royal 


A SOCIAL TRIUMPH 


187 

Academy. They had not, Miss Burden was assured, but 
they would make a point of going specially to Burlington 
House to inspect it. Thereupon Lord Cheriton, with 
an arch look at Jim’s mother, mentioned Mr. Lascelles’ 
undoubted genius. 

“Of course,” said Miss Laetitia, “Mr. Lascelles must 
have genius if he exhibits at the Royal Academy.” 

“Not necessarily, Laetitia,” said Lady Charlotte with 
her natural air of dispensing universal information. 
“I have known quite second-rate people exhibit at the 
Royal Academy.” 

“Have you though?” said Cheriton. “That is interest- 

• _ ff 

ing. 

“There is Mottrom,” said Lady Charlotte. “One 
finds his pictures there continually. Nothing will con¬ 
vince me that Mottrom is first-rate. One feels one must 
really draw the line at the music of Wagner and the 
pictures of Mottrom.” 

“Capital!” murmured Cheriton to no one in particular. 
The voice of Miss Perry was heard again in the land. 
“Do you like the pictures of Joseph Wright of Derby?” 
inquired that art critic. 

Jim’s mother looked at Lord Cheriton and Lord 
Cheriton looked at Jim’s mother. 

“A police constable, was he not?” said the elder Miss 

Champneys, 

“Lord Cheriton can tell you,” said the helpful Miss 
Perry. 

“Quite likely,” said that authority, with the air of one 
to whom a great truth has presented itself unexpectedly. 
“To be sure, what could be more natural than Police 
Constable Joseph Wright of Derby?” 

Jim Lascelles began to grow restless, as sensitive souls 
are apt to do when amateurs talk “shop” for their benefit. 
And in his capacity of a common-sense young Briton of 


ARAMINTA 


188 

athletic tastes he felt that to call a man a genius was 
much the same as kicking him. Still, mothers are 
privileged. 

For Cheriton, however, there was not that excuse when 
he made his sudden demand. During a brief pause in 
the conversation he said, “Won’t you take us to see your 
masterpiece, my dear fellow?” 

Jim expressed a polite willingness to do so. But as 
a preliminary he went to the chimney piece and took up 
the plate of cream buns. These in hand, he led the way 
through the open French window to the wooden erection 
in the garden. Cheriton brought up the rear of the 
procession, shepherding the six ladies with superb gal¬ 
lantry. 

The painting-room contained merely a rug for the 
floor, a large and comfortable sofa with cushions, and 
at the far end, in a sumptuous light, the single canvas 
three parts complete. A dozen studies of the great sub¬ 
ject and minor works had been tidied away. 

The Miss Champneys gave rein to their admiration. 

“But surely,” said Lady Charlotte Greg, making great 
play with her glasses, “but surely this is a very fine 
picture.” 

“One is beginning to think so,” said Cheriton com¬ 
placently. 

“I have thought so from the first,” said the mother 
of the artist. 

Miss Burden declared that she had too. 

“I wish I could have worn my party frock,” said Miss 
Perry, without a trace of vanity. “But it is not for 
out of doors.” 

“The frock does not trouble me,” said Jim. “It is that 
runcible hat which I am exercised about.” 

“Runcible hat?” said Lady Charlotte Greg. 

“She wear-eth a run-ci-ble hat,” said Jim. 


A SOCIAL TRIUMPH 189 

Without preface or apology Miss Perry seated herself 
in the center of the sofa and assumed her pose. 

“A singularly beautiful sitter,” said Lady Charlotte, 
“and singularly placable.” 

With an ostentation that in the circumstances was note¬ 
worthy Jim Lascelles placed the plate of cream buns on a 
small table at a respectful distance from the sofa. 

“I’m afraid,” said Jim politely but firmly, “that I must 
now ask the public to withdraw.” 

“Rembrandt himself could not have bettered it,” said 
Cheriton as he stood by the door to usher into the garden 
the five irresponsible creatures who were babbling rudi¬ 
mentary criticism of the fine arts. 

By the time Miss Perry returned to the little sitting- 
room she had duly earned, received and assimilated two 
cream buns, Gunter’s large size. For her the sitting had 
been a decided success, and Jim Lascelles also was inclined 
to view it in that light. Already he had put an immense 
amount of work into the picture, and he was now begin¬ 
ning to feel that the end was near. And looking at 
it as it grew, touching and retouching it continually, 
learning to treat each detail with a boldness and a delicacy 
of which he had already dared to think himself capable, 
he could not help feeling that this work stood for 
growth. 

Already he knew it had added a cubit to his stature. 
Something had been born in him as the crown of seven 
years’ single-minded and assiduous toil. Indeed, the 
artist was almost beginning to hope that some morning 
he might wake to find himself famous. 

When sitter and painter returned to the house they 
found my lord reading La Chartreuse de Parme aloud to 
Miss Burden and Jim’s mother. 

“Now we must fly,” said Miss Burden, “I tremble to 
think what will happen.” 


190 


ARAMINTA 


“We shall have to plead guilty,” said Cheriton, “to 
finding the polo at Hurlingham very absorbing.” 

But Miss Burden was genuinely alarmed. However, 
the three distinguished visitors left The Acacias with the 
request that they might return another day. 


CHAPTER XX 


MISS PERRY HAS HER PALM CROSSED 

WITH SILVER 

T HE companion was subjected to harsh treatment 
on her return to Hill Street. She was forbidden 
to visit Hurlingham again during the rest of 
the season. In truth, she felt very guilty and bent her 
head before the torrent of abuse which, wholly contrary 
to the doctor’s orders, was showered upon her. All the 
same, Miss Burden knew that she was privy to a ro¬ 
mance. In the visit to Laxton elements were comprised 
which set off to some extent the persecution she had to 
endure. 

Lady Crewkerne’s medical adviser, Sir Wotherspoon 
Ogle, was strongly of opinion that abuse is not good for 
laryngitis. 

“Lady Crewkerne,” he said, “do not speak for three 
days.” 

“Rubbish!” said the old woman in a husky wheeze. 

“I will not answer for the consequences,” said Sir 
Wotherspoon. 

“Answer for the consequences, forsooth!” said the for¬ 
midable patient. 

Next day the old woman was rather worse. Never¬ 
theless, for the second time during her illness George 
Betterton called upon her and was received within the 
sanctity of her chamber, a proceeding hardly in accord 
with Sir Wotherspoon’s advice. 


192 


ARAMINTA 


Cheriton called at half-past twelve the same morning. 
To him, however, access to the vicinity of the four- 
poster was sternly denied. When he learned that for 
half an hour past his rival had been thus favored he 
became grave indeed. 

“What is that man after?” he said mistrustfully to 
Miss Burden. “No good, I am sure. Yesterday it was 
the same. They spent an hour together as thick as 
thieves. And yet she is unable to see her oldest friend, 
a disinterested adviser and sincere well-wisher.” 

Miss Burden could throw no light upon the mystery. 

“How is she this morning?” her oldest friend inquired. 

“Sir Wotherspoon Ogle does not think at all well of 
her.” 

“Naturally.” 

“The mind is so active.” 

“Her tongue, you mean.” 

Miss Burden dolefully concurred that her tongue was 
active also. 

“Rather late in the day for her to learn to bridle it. 
But if she won’t, so much the worse for her.” 

“Sir Wotherspoon finds her a rather trying patient, 
I’m afraid.” 

“If he does not,” said Cheriton, “he is either less than 
human or he is more.” 

My lord afforded Miss Burden and Miss Perry the 
privilege of his society at luncheon. He proposed that 
they should spend the afternoon at the Sale of Work in 
aid of Saint Remigius, Laxton. Miss Perry was charmed 
with the idea. Miss Burden welcomed it, yet she doubted 
sorely whether her services could be dispensed with. 
However, by the exercise of a little diplomacy she learned 
that the fates were well disposed, for not only was the 
Duke of Brancaster returning at four o’clock, but her 
ladyship’s solicitor was also expected. 


MISS PERRY HAS PALM CROSSED 193 

“Her solicitor!” Cheriton exclaimed. “What the 
dooce does she want with her solicitor?” 

My lord seemed perturbed more than a little by the 
coming of that ominous personage. 

“I wonder if the old harridan is capable of playing 
me a trick?” he mused. 

En route to Laxton his speculations on the subject 
were many. In conjunction with George’s assiduity, the 
appearance of the lawyer on the scene was not a good 
omen. 

At the bazaar, however, Cheriton showed no sign of 
mental or moral perturbation. The lavender trousers 
had been exchanged for an art shade of gray. In lieu 
of a turquoise the tie-pin had a pearl in it; the waistcoat, 
no longer a complex harmony in lilac, was of plain white 
pique; and instead of a gold-headed cane he bore the 
famous ivory-handled umbrella, which had been repaired 
wtith such exemplary skill that it left no trace of the 
recent catastrophe at Saint Sepulchre’s. 

All that was best in the life of Laxton and its environs 
was gathered at the Sale of Work in aid of Saint 
Remigius. First and foremost was the Vicar of the 
parish, the Reverend John Overdene Cummings, a man 
whom all the world delighted to honor, not for his office 
only, but also for himself. Among his many merits, 
perhaps that which endeared him most to all that was best 
in the life of Laxton was an almost exaggerated esteem 
for what he called “the right people.” It was said in the 
first instance to be entirely due to Mr. Cummings that 
the Miss Champneys had prevailed upon their friend 
Lady Charlotte Greg to perform the opening ceremony. 

That august lady had just had great pleasure in de¬ 
claring the Sale of Work open, when something in the 
nature of a sensation was caused by the arrival of the 
wonderful Miss Perry and her attendant ministers. 


194 


ARAMINTA 


The Assembly Rooms had been transformed into a 
Sicilian Village. They were thronged with the fashion, 
beauty and youth of the district, and also with the gay 
and brilliant costumes of the peasantry of the sunny 
south. But there was nothing in that gathering to com¬ 
pare with the blue-eyed and yellow-haired young Amazon, 
hatted and gowned a la Gainsborough. Miss Burden felt 
there was not; and she, in staid black and white with a 
scarf of old lace, was not without allure, for she too 
was tall, her figure was excellent, and she had an air. 
As for Cheriton, with his glass stuck rather insolently 
in his left eye, he knew there was nothing, not in Laxton 
merely, but in the whole of London that season, to com¬ 
pare with Caroline Crewkerne’s niece. He was a proud 
man, and he looked it as, with pardonable ostentation, 
he found a way for his escort down the precise center 
of the throng. 

Jim’s mother, who had had the duty of presiding over 
the refreshment stall thrust upon her, was thrilled by the 
apparition of Miss Perry. Small blame to Jim that he 
had given his days and nights to dreams of such mag¬ 
nificence. And Jim himself, who had turned up more, 
it is to be feared, in the hope of seeing in public the mar¬ 
velous hat and its wearer than for any vital interest in 
the welfare of Saint Remigius, was fired by an odd 
excitement as he gazed. 

“What an air the creature has!’’ his mother whispered 
to him. “I never saw anything so regal. She moves 
like a queen among her subjects. And yet the Goose, 
under her feathers, hasn’t the ghost of an idea about 
anything in earth or heaven or in Slocum Magna.” 

“You forget Joseph Wright of Derby, my dear.” 

“The ridiculous creature!’’ 

Meantime, the progress down the main street of the 
Sicilian Village was almost royal. The wave of curiosity 


MISS PERRY HAS PALM CROSSED 


*95 


such distinguished visitors inspired nearly culminated 
in their being mobbed. Indeed, royalty was mentioned. 
The Vicar with his quick eye had a sure instinct im¬ 
mediately excited. 

“Dear me,” he said to Miss Laetitia Champneys in 
exultant tones, “I really believe it must be the Grand 
Duchess Olga Romano.” 

It appeared that a tall and splendid person answering 
to that name was then in London, who was to be seen 
continually at charitable bazaars. 

“Oh no, Vicar,” said Miss Laetitia, “they are friends 
of ours.” 

A kind of dais had been erected at the end of the 
Sicilian Village for the accommodation of the grandees. 
The distinguished visitors, although they had no locus 
standi whatever as far as Saint Remigius was concerned, 
took a bee line to the dais under Cheriton’s direction. 
A peer of the realm feels it his duty to make straight 
for a platform whenever and wherever he sees one. 

The Miss Champneys greeted Lord Cheriton in stately 
fashion, while Lady Charlotte shook hands with him at 
a fashionable angle. 

“Introduce me,” said the Vicar to the elder Miss 
Champneys. 

Cheriton prided himself upon being all things to all 
men. His manner with the Church was agreeably dif¬ 
ferentiated from what it was with Art or Letters or Law 
or the Army or Sport or Politics. 

“May I be allowed to congratulate you, sir, on the 
success of your fete,” he said sonorously. “Admirable 
hall for the purpose. To my mind nothing is more 
picturesque than a Sicilian Village. The costumes are 
so rich.” 

In the meantime Miss Perry was enjoying herself 
enormously. The first thing she did was to greet Jim’s 


196 


ARAMINTA 


mother with effusion and also Jim. The latter, who was 
assiduously cultivating the commercial instinct, informed 
his mother that she was sure of one important customer. 

“What awfully nice cakes you have!” said Miss Perry. 

She had a small pink one to inaugurate the refreshment 
stall. Promising to return anon, she then made a tour 
of the Sicilian Village. In the fancy bazaar, presided 
over by Mrs. and the Misses Hobson, she made her 
second purchase. 

“Those bed socks are too sw'eet. I should like to buy 
them for dearest papa, because his feet are always so 
cold in the winter. How much are they, please?” 

“One guinea,” said Miss Hermia Hobson. 

“You can get them cheaper than that at Slocum 
Magna.” 

“Everything at this stall is one guinea,” said Miss 
Hermia Hobson, “except the antimacassars, and they 
are five, because they were out in India during the 
Mutiny.” 

“Were they indeed!” Cheriton took up a very fragile 
and faded article. “During the Mutiny! That is most 
interesting.” 

“Don’t touch them, please,” said Miss Hermia Hobson. 
“They might easily fall to pieces.” 

“I think dearest papa would rather have the bed socks,” 
said Miss Perry. “They are too sw'eet.” 

Cheriton gallantly disbursed the sum of one guinea. 

Miss Perry’s tour of the Sicilian Village resulted in the 
acquisition of a rag basket of a new and original design, 
which it appeared that Muffin had always wanted; a 
pocketknife for Dickie; a mariner’s compass for Charley; 
an album for Milly; a piece of lace for Polly; and a 
box of soldiers for the small son of Mrs. Crick, who 
kept the Post Office at Slocum Magna. A copy of 
Persuasion was procured for Miss Burden, by Lord 


MISS PERRY HAS PALM CROSSED 197 

Cheriton’s advice; and a copy of Law’s Serious Call for 
Aunt Caroline, also by the advice of that peer. He him¬ 
self was content with an orchid, which was fixed in his 
buttonhole by Miss Laetitia Champneys, Miss Burden 
holding the pin. Miss Perry had some difficulty in 
weighing the respective claims of a rabbit that was able 
to roll its eyes and move its ears and a box of caramels. 
Eventually she decided in favor of the latter. All the 
same, she felt that the former would have undoubtedly 
appealed to Tobias. But it might have had a tendency 
to make him bloodthirsty. 

Afternoon tea at Mrs. Lascelles’ stall, to the strains 
of Chicane’s Orchestral Cossacks, who had been specially 
engaged to appear in Sicily, was a delightful function. 
The Vicar, the Vicaress, the Miss Champneys and Lady 
Charlotte Greg all came together to the refreshment stall 
to drink the fragrant Bohea. The verger of Saint 
Remigius railed off a special table with a cord to keep 
back the crowd. It seemed that the Vicar’s theory of 
the Grand Duchess had been overheard and had been at 
once taken to the heart of that great institution, the 
British Public. By now it had acquired such a hold 
that Her Yellow-haired Magnificence in the picture hat 
was said to be the niece of the Czar. 

Cheriton had a pleasing sense of uncertainty as to 
whether public curiosity was due to the imperious chal¬ 
lenge of female beauty or to the appearance and attain¬ 
ments of the sixth earl of that name. Being a very vain 
man, he was not disinclined to believe it was the latter; 
therefore he sat in the inclosure sipping his tea with 
a superb air and preening his plumage like an elderly 
cockatoo. 

“He wears a wig,” a member of the public could be 
heard to say quite distinctly. 

“Oh, yes,” said a second member, with an air of infor- 


ARAMINTA 


198 

mation. “So like a Romanoff. The late Czar was as 
bald as an egg.” 

After doing frank and impartial justice to the tea and 
confectionary, Miss Perry made her way to the Gypsy’s 
Tent to have her palm crossed with silver. 

“I see a tall dark man,” said the gypsy. 

“Ye—es,” said Cheriton, “there is no doubt about him. 
But can you see an obese apoplectic-looking individual 
with a face remarkably like a turkey cock’s?” 

“I don’t see him at present,” said the gypsy. 

“Are you quite sure?” 

“I see a tall fair man who is young and handsome,” 
said the gypsy. Jim Lascelles had just entered the tent 
with Miss Burden. “And I see a tall, dark woman, and, 
yes, a short fair man who is rich and rather stout, begins 
to emerge. He is rather old and appears to have been 
twice married-” 

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Miss Burden in a voice of 
awe. 

“Don’t overlook the tallish dark fellow,” said Cheriton 
rather anxiously. 

“Yes—no—yes,” said the gypsy, “and the tallish dark 
man and the tall fair man and the short stout man— 
really I don’t remember reading a hand quite so complex 
as this.” 

“It was a tall fair man at Widdiford,” said Miss Perry. 

With a gesture of petulance the gypsy discarded the 
hand of that lady, solemnly declaring that she had 
spoiled everything. 

“We were married at Widdiford,” said Miss Perry, 
“and we lived happily ever afterwards, and we only paid 
a shilling.” 

“I am afraid shilling fortunes are seldom trustworthy,” 
said Cheriton. “But I should like a little more informa¬ 
tion about that red-faced, apoplectic fellow.” 



MISS PERRY HAS PALM CROSSED 199 

“They might very easily marry,” said the gypsy in a 
sinister manner. 

“What rot!” muttered Jim Lascelles. 

Cheriton seemed to think that the gypsy was confusing 
the short man with the tallish dark one. 

The hand of Miss Burden was found to be less com¬ 
plex. In her horoscope there was only one man, and he 
was tall and dark. 

“I think it is wonderful,” she said, with a charming 
vibration in her voice. 

The exigencies of the case made an early return to 
'Hill Street necessary. Hurlingham was already for¬ 
bidden for the rest of the season. It would not do, 
declared my lord, for Ranelagh also to be inhibited. 
Otherwise they would be compelled to restrict themselves 
to Burlington House, to Lord’s and the Circus. 


CHAPTER XXI 


HIGH DIPLOMACY 


L ADY CREWKERNE’S interview with her law^- 
yer did her no harm. Indeed, she seemed to 
sleep the sounder for it. All the same, the state 
of her health called for much vigilance on the part of Sir 
Wotherspoon Ogle. The skill of that eminent physician 
did not go without reward. Whatever the actual con¬ 
dition of the patient’s vocal chords, they appeared to 
grow decidedly stronger, in spite of the fact that she was 
rigidly forbidden to use them. 

“On no account, Lady Crewkerne,” said Sir Wother¬ 
spoon with due professional gravity, “must you have 
recourse to your voice.” 

“You would like me to hold my tongue, I dare say,” 
said the old woman, as hoarse as a raven. “If I did 
you would soon have the lid on my coffin.” 

Sir Wotherspoon was grieved and shocked. 

Cheriton made three applications for admission to the 
presence, yet was thrice refused. On the other hand, 
his rival, George Betterton, continued in high favor. 
However, at the fourth attempt, on a Sunday morning, 
he obtained the entree. 

The occupant of the four-poster, supported by pillows, 
and embellished by the headdress and the famous Indian 
shawl, looked in the opinion of her visitor quite her old 
self. The eyes glittered as fiercely and as shrewdly as 
of yore; the curve of the nose was as macawlike as ever; 
while as for the stern jaw and the grim mouth, enough 

200 


HIGH DIPLOMACY 


201 


hard sarcasm and unflinching force of character lurked 
around them to quell the vast majority of human kind. 

Cheriton was a fop and a fribble, as all the world knew. 
Nevertheless, he was not easily abashed. He greeted the 
formidable Caroline with a coolness that served him well. 
Had he bated so much as an eyelid he would have received 
very short shrift this morning. For no matter what 
Sir Wotherspoon Ogle’s opinion in regard to the mech¬ 
anism that was buttoned into the linen band of the old 
woman’s nightgown, there can be no doubt that, taken 
as a whole, the aged frame had gained alarmingly in 
bodily vigor by a week’s detention within the precincts 
of the four-poster. 

“How are you, Caroline?” said Cheriton with his 
habitual empressement. 

“Worth a good many dead ones at present,” said the 
old woman hoarsely. 

“So I perceive,” said her visitor with a little sigh. 

Upon the counterpane lay Law’s Serious Call. My 
lord took up the volume and ran his fingers thoughtfully 
through the leaves. On the first page in extremely large 
and decidedly juvenile characters was the inscription, 
“To dearest Aunt Caroline, with Fondest Love from her 
Affectionate Niece, Araminta.” 

“Caroline,” said her visitor, “you must be a very 
happy woman to have a niece who takes such a practical 
interest in your future life, particularly at a time when 
the state of your health tends to make the question so 
interesting.” 

The occupant of the four-poster poised her chin, the 
incarnation of truculence. From under their bushy 
canopy the fierce eyes flashed with all the ruthlessness 
of their prime. She did not speak. Her silence ren¬ 
dered her the more formidable. 

“In my humble judgment,” said Cheriton, choosing 


202 


ARAMINTA 


his words, “your affectionate niece has a charmingly 
frank and at the same time a deeply spiritual nature.” 

“Humph! The creature has as much spirituality as 
that bedpost.” 

“How can you be so obtuse, my dear Caroline ? There 
is a vein of poetic ideality in our dear Miss Goose that 
makes one think of Saint Catherine of Siena.” 

“A vein of poetic fiddlestick! She has as much ideal¬ 
ity as Ponto has. The only thing that interests either 
of them is their meals. In fact, I should say that Ponto 
has the better soul of the two. I sometimes suspect that 
dog of being an esoteric Buddhist in a reincarnation.” 

“Do you indeed?” said Cheriton. “Well, when Ponto 
presents his benefactress with a copy of Amiel’s Journal 
I shall be only too happy to think you have grounds for 
your suspicion.” 

Cheriton continued to run fond fingers through the 
pages of Law’s Serious Call. 

“To my thinking,” said he, “it was a deliciously frank 
nature that conceived the idea of presenting you with 
a work of this character.” 

“Cheriton, you are a trifler.” 

My lord shook his head. “Caroline,” he said solemnly, 
“I don’t winder that your standard of things in general 
has gone awry.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

Cheriton indulged in a tragic gesture. “That man,” 
he said. 

“To whom do you refer?” 

“I refer to the most dangerous man in London. The 
turkey-faced ruffian! He would undermine the moral 
code of Augustine himself.” 

“Happily,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “I am 
not Augustine. As far as George is concerned, I stand 
where I was. Yet mark one thing, Cheriton—mark one 


HIGH DIPLOMACY 


203 


thing fully”—the quiescent lioness paused to unfurl the 
ominous jowl from the band of her nightgown—“I have 
a greater respect for George at this moment than I have 
ever had.” 

“Have you, though,” said Cheriton meditatively. 

He was a cool hand, but he was a little uneasy. The 
occupant of the four-poster marked the hint of dis¬ 
quietude with a grim satisfaction. 

“Yes, Cheriton,” said the raven’s voice. “Whatever 
else he may be, George, in my opinion, is a practical 
man.” 

“Practical enough, I grant you, where his appetites are 
concerned.” 

“In my judgment,” said the occupant of the four- 
poster, “it is precisely where his appetites are concerned 
that a man ought to be practical.” 

Cheriton agreed with reluctance. 

“But there are people,” said he, “to whom their open 
pursuit must always seem repulsive.” 

“There are many humbugs in the world,” said Caroline 
Crewkerne. “Privately I think with George that matri¬ 
mony ought to be placed upon a business basis.” 

Cheriton threw up his hands with carefully-simulated 
horror. 

“No, Caroline, you have no soul. And yet your doctor 
says that during the past week you have been literally 
walking in the Valley of the Shadow.” 

“Ogle is a liar! He is thinking of his fee.” 

“For shame, Caroline! And you so near the Abyss!” 

The occupant of the four-poster gave her headdress a 
tilt. From under the bushy eyebrows the gaze was that 
of a sybil. Cheriton began to wonder which card the 
old heathen was going to play. 

Said the magisterial Caroline, “Are you aware, my 
friend, that all London is looking at you?” 


204 


ARAMINTA 


"Ah, that is interesting.” Cheriton’s vanity was 
tickled. “One wonders what it sees.” 

“It sees that your conduct is of doubtful pro¬ 
priety.” 

“Does it, indeed!” 

“I have reason to believe that George shares that 
opinion.” 

“George!” exclaimed Cheriton with a noble rage. 
“George’s opinion! I’ll thank George to refrain from 
expressing an opinion about things which do not concern 
him.” 

“He is a man of the world, at any rate.” 

“George is a presumptuous fellow,” said Cheriton 
heatedly. “I should recommend him not to meddle with 
my private affairs. Let him attend to his own.” 

“George is quite able to do that,” said Caroline with 
a sudden fall in her harsh voice that her old adversary 
knew to be decidedly dangerous. “In fact, I may tell 
you, Cheriton, that George has already placed his affairs 
upon a business basis.” 

“Pray what do you mean, Caroline?” 

“It is not so much a question of what I mean,” said the 
cryptical Caroline. “The question is, what do you mean, 
Cheriton?” 

His lordship allowed Law’s Serious Call to fall upon 
the counterpane. 

“I wish you wouldn’t indulge in riddles.” 

“There is no mystery, my friend. I am going to say 
one thing to you quite plainly.” 

“In my humble view, Caroline, you have always been 
inclined to err on the side of plainness.” 

“George thinks, and I agree with him, that it is high 
time you disclosed your intentions.” 

“My intentions!” 

“Your intentions, Cheriton, with regard to my niece 


HIGH DIPLOMACY 


205 

Araminta. As she has been entrusted to my care, I feel 
that I have a right to know.” 

During the pause that followed the occupant of the 
four-poster adjusted her headdress to a style bearing an 
unconscious resemblance to a Sioux Indian. On his own 
part Cheriton assumed a port of dignified composure. 

“I have no need to assure you, Caroline,” said he im¬ 
pressively, “that my intentions, so far as your niece Miss 
Perry is concerned, are honorable in the highest degree.” 

“I am glad to have your assurance of that, Cheriton,” 
said Caroline coolly. “George appeared to take a rather 
pessimistic view of them.” 

“I will thank you, Caroline, not to quote that man to 
me. 

“My respect for George is increasing. He is a prac¬ 
tical man, and in my judgment, Cheriton, that is where 
he has the advantage over you. For in my judgment 
you have never been that.” 

“Bah! An advantage one is only too ready to con¬ 
cede to anybody.” 

“If you’ll take my advice, you won’t concede it too 
readily. There is one question I must put to you.” The 
occupant of the four-poster leaned forward beneath her 
canopy with an aspect of the most resolute sarcasm that 
ever adorned the human countenance. “Do you intend 
to marry the girl?” 

The question in its ruthless directness was fired point- 
blank. Even Cheriton, with all his cynicism, was not 
prepared for anything quite so straight from the shoulder. 
Therefore he gave ground a little. He was inclined to 
hum and haw. 

“Answer me, Cheriton,” Caroline Crewkerne’s wrinkled 
old lips curled in scorn. “Do you intend to marry my 
niece ? 

Cheriton abated his glance. In the calm process of 


206 


ARAMINTA 


thought he took the glass from his eye and examined it 
critically. He shifted his weight from his left leg to 
his right. Then he replaced the glass carefully and stuck 
his hands under his morning coat. 

“Yes, Caroline, I do,” he said with admirable com¬ 
posure. 

“Very good, Cheriton,” said the occupant of the four- 
poster with an extremely businesslike air. “I feel it to 
be my duty to inform you that George does also.” 

The blow was planted with all the skill of which the 
occupant of the four-poster was capable. Cheriton, how¬ 
ever, had had time to foresee it. Therefore, although 
unable to evade its force, he received it staunchly. 

“But that is impossible,” he said, matter-of-factly. 

“Why impossible?” asked Caroline with the amenity 
of one who holds the game in her hand. 

“The most ill-assorted pair in England. Consider the 
incongruity of their tastes, their dissimilarity of outlook, 
their disparity in years. One shudders at the idea of 
such a ravishing creature marrying a man like George.” 

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton. George is more 
eligible than you are.” 

“Upon my word, Caroline!” 

“Socially, of course, George is the more important.” 

“That I take leave to doubt. In my humble opinion, 
a first-rate earl is of more account than a second-rate 
duke.” 

“That’s as may be, Cheriton. But in any case, George 
has already placed the matter upon a business basis.” 

“Revolting!” 

“Coxcombry!” 

“Tell me what you mean precisely by a business basis.” 

“George has made a definite offer.” 

“To the girl?” 

“Certainly not. Have you no sense of propriety? 


HIGH DIPLOMACY 207 

And I may say that as far as it goes the offer is a tolerably 
good one.” 

“You are quite sure that George means marriage?” 

“Yes, George means marriage.” Again the occupant 
of the four-poster assumed her “hanging-judge” de¬ 
meanor. 

“One can only say that the whole thing sounds very 
unlike him. I yield to none, Caroline, in whole-hearted 
admiration of your niece Araminta, considered aestheti¬ 
cally and as a work of nature, but you must not forget 
that she has not a sou, and she is of no particular family.” 

The occupant of the four-poster breathed slaughter 
and fire. 

“She is a Wargrave.” 

“On the distaff side.” 

“More than good enough for either of you.” 

“Matter of opinion, Caroline, matter of opinion,” said 
the mellifluous Cheriton. 

“Your patent dates from a land-jobbing lawyer in the 
days of George the Second,” said the occupant of the 
four-poster, whose headdress was performing strange 
feats. “As for the Bettertons—who, pray, are the 
Bettertons ?” 

“A truce to family pride. Let us get on with the 
business. I should be glad to know precisely what that 
sordid-minded man has offered.” 

“A settlement is, of course, a sine qua non .” 

“One fails to understand why it should be, seeing that 
the girl herself has not a penny.” 

“In my judgment, Cheriton, the creature’s destitute 
condition renders a settlement the more imperative.” 

“But one may suppose you are prepared to do some¬ 
thing, Caroline,” said Cheriton with a severely practical 
air that was not quite in harmony with his vaunted al¬ 
truism. “You are dooced rich, you know; you have not 


208 


ARAMINTA 


a soul to leave your money to; and you can’t take it 
with you.” 

“As far as aspirants to my niece’s hand are concerned, 
my intentions with regard to her do not enter into the 
case. It is their intentions that are important. George 
has made a definite offer. Do you propose to better it?” 

“What is George’s offer?” 

“George is prepared,” said Caroline Crewkerne, who 
in spite of her “laryngitis” spoke with wonderful clear¬ 
ness and precision, “to make an ante-nuptial settlement 
upon my niece, Miss Perry, of five thousand a year and 
the dower house at Godaiming.” 

Cheriton appeared to give ground a little. 

“Have you that in writing, Caroline?” said he. 

“I have. It is in the hands of my lawyer.” 

“If I may I should like very much to see it.” 

“You will see nothing, my friend. The question for 
you is, are you prepared to better George’s offer?” 

“It is so unlike George,” said the incredulous Cheriton, 
“that one can hardly bring oneself to believe that he 
made it. He has treated none of his other women in 
that way.” 

“Doubtless they had nobody who knew how to handle 
him,” said the occupant of the four-poster with a grim 
chuckle. 

“Yes, Caroline, you have a good head,” sighed my 
lord. 

“Are you prepared, Cheriton, to better George’s offer?” 

“It requires consideration,” said that idealist thought¬ 
fully. 

The old woman’s upper lip took its famous and sinister 
double curl, while her headdress seemed to erect itself 
into a veritable panoply of derision. 

“By all means, Cheriton, think it over. I will give 
you a week.” 


HIGH DIPLOMACY 


209 


“Let us say a fortnight.” 

“No, a week. A fortnight would not be fair to 
George.” 

Marchbanks entered on tiptoe. 

“Sir Wotherspoon Ogle, my lady.” 

The negotiations were abruptly curtailed by the en¬ 
trance of the eminent physician. 

“How pleasant to see you looking so much improved!” 
said Sir Wotherspoon. “Complete rest of mind and 
body have done wonders for you.” 

“Humph!” said the patient ungraciously. 

“Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to 
do!” Cheriton reflected as he took his leave. 


CHAPTER XXII 


A CONVERSATION AT WARD’S 

C HERITON had food for thought. He had a 
constitutional objection to doing things under 
compulsion or in a hurry, but the tactics of 
Caroline Crewkerne were perilously like pointing a 
loaded pistol at one’s head. My lord would have greatly 
preferred his sentiments in regard to Miss Perry to ripen 
at leisure. Let Nature take her course. Why force the 
fine flower of altruism or encumber it with the coarser 
growths of a sordid and grasping materialism. 

His admiration for Caroline’s niece was very great. 
It was shared, however, with many people. Her success 
had been a feature of the season. Cheriton was in no 
sense a modest man, and he could not help feeling that 
much of it was due to his brilliantly effective stage man¬ 
agement. Certainly his zeal for Miss Perry’s advance¬ 
ment had been largely inspired by vanity. From the 
first he had taken her under his wing, and much of the 
world’s applause had been addressed to him personally 
on the strength of his “discovery.” 

He was a little passe, no doubt, to think of marriage. 
But quite a number of considerations spurred him on. 
Foremost was a genuine regard for the adorable Miss 
Goose. And the mere act of walking down Bond Street 
with her attracted an amount of notice that he was not 
accustomed to claim in his own person. But it appealed 
to him immensely. Besides, if commanding beauty and 

a unique personality did not themselves suffice, the fact 

210 


A CONVERSATION AT WARD’S 211 

that a powerful rival was in the field was also a mighty 
stimulus. 

He was fully determined not to be cut out by a man 
like George Betterton. Braced by this resolve, he saun¬ 
tered down to his club to collect the gossip of the town. 
From the first he had had a lurking suspicion that George 
meant business; but unless Caroline played him false and 
his cause was already forsworn, he felt sure that he would 
prove more than a match for that clumsy fellow. 

Could one count upon Caroline Crewkerne? That 
was rather a poser for his lordship. So well was he ac¬ 
quainted with the mental processes of that difficult old 
woman that he was quite sure he could not count upon 
her unless some very definite reason for her goodwill 
was advanced. If he really wanted Miss Perry, one 
thing was clear. He must prove himself the superior 
parti. 

“George is a dangerous fellow,” mused Cheriton on 
the way to his club. “A big-wig in his way, with his 
money and his Garter. Just the man to catch any woman. 
And if he wants a penniless parson’s daughter he can 
afford to marry her. So be it! But while there is good 
manhood left in the country that ruffian shall not marry 
our adorable goose.” 

In the act of forming this resolution the preux chevalier 
turned the corner of Saint James’ Street. Seated in the 
historic bow-window of Ward’s was the object of his 
reflections. The Duke was reading Horse and Hound. 
As Cheriton ascended the club steps he marked his rival 
with the air of a satyr. 

“There he is,” he mused cheerfully. “He’s got the 
head of a rocking-horse, thank God!” 

Seen in profile, the purple and spectacled countenance, 
the loose cheeks and the bald head, without exactly merit¬ 
ing the strictures to which their owner w&s exposed, yet 


212 


ARAMINTA 


bore a kind of wooden stupidity which gave ground for 
the portrait. 

Cheriton, having observed that none of his fellow 
members were within earshot, advanced to the recess with 
an air of bonhomie that was totally lost upon George 
Betterton, who was not in the least susceptible to casual 
external influences. 

“How are you, my dear fellow?” he said heartily. 

“Pooty well for an old ’un,” said his Grace with the 
rough geniality he extended to all the world and his wife. 

“Quite free of the old trouble, I hope?” said the 
solicitous Cheriton. 

George gave an affirmative growl. 

“As I haven’t seen you about lately I was beginning 
to fear that you were laid up again.” 

“No,” said George; and then, blunderer as he was, he 
walked into the trap. “Why,” he said, “I quite thought 
I saw you at Hill Street yesterday.” 

“Hill Street!” Cheriton’s tone was very innocent. 
“I was certainly there, but I didn’t see you.” 

“You were,” said George, “and so was I. We both 
called, but Caroline wouldn’t have you up, as she thought 
the two of us might be a bit too much for her.” 

“She erred on the side of caution. Half a hundred 
men like you and me would not prove too much for that 
old woman.” 

“No, I dare say not.” 

“In my humble opinion, if that old woman stays in bed 
much longer they’ll not be able to keep the roof over her.” 

“Remarkably vigorous mind for her years.” 

“Her mind is far too vigorous.” Cheriton spoke as 
one who imparts a profound truth to an intellectual equal. 
“In my humble opinion, Caroline Crewkerne is a rather 
embarrassing phenomenon. She has the outlook of a 
Whig and the instincts of a Jesuit.” 


A CONVERSATION AT WARD’S 


213 


“I dare say,” grunted George, who felt that Cheriton, 
as usual, was becoming tedious. He showed a strong 
inclination to resume the study of the prices made 
at Tattersall’s the week before last. Cheriton’s 
next remark, however, did something to hold his 
interest. 

“You remember that niece of hers?” said Cheriton, 
speaking in a rather aggrieved voice. 

“Ye—es,” said George, brightening perceptibly. “Gal 
with the ginger hair.” 

“Well now,” said his friend impressively, “let me tell 
you something.” 

Cheriton looked round the room to make sure that he 
could not be overheard. 

“When that girl came to London a few weeks ago she 
arrived at Hill Street in a turnout that any self-respecting 
butter-woman would disdain to go to market in. She 
was the most untutored child of Nature you ever saw.” 

George’s nod expressed a growing interest in this 
piquant narrative. 

“Well, Caroline was furious. You know, I dare say, 
the circumstances in which the girl came to Hill Street. 
Mind you, the facts of the case are highly creditable to 
Caroline. I have known her forty years, but it is the 
first spontaneous act of charity in which she has indulged 
in my experience. But when she saw what the wilds of 
Exmoor could produce, her first thought was to get rid 
of the creature. However, with infinite difficulty I man¬ 
aged to dissuade her. Father a parson, don’t you know, 
without one shilling to rub against another, and a dooce 
of a long family to bring up.” 

“Ye—es,” said George, nodding again. 

“Knowing what the family circumstances were, it 
seemed only right to give the girl a chance. And then it 
suddenly occurred to me that the parson’s rustic daughter 


214 


ARAMINTA 


was by way of being a throw-back to Gainsborough’s 
Duchess. Well, George, what do you think I did?” 

George had no idea. 

“I got hold of Duprez, the Paris milliner, and Pelissier, 
the woman from the bonnet shop in Grafton Street, and 
between us we managed to rig the girl up into quite a 
tolerable imitation of Grandmother Dorset. And as I 
felt an interest in the girl for her own sake, for she is a 
good, simple creature, I took her about to let her see 
something of London, so that she might get a few 
ideas about things in general.” 

George’s nod expressed a continuing interest. 

“I said to Caroline, my dear fellow”—Cheriton grew 
more confidential than ever—“ ‘if only you play your 
cards as well as you used to, with a bit of luck that girl 
might marry. She hasn’t a penny and she is of no 
particular family, but when she has on a pretty frock she 
is not bad-looking in her rustic style. In fact, Caroline/ 
I said, ‘in my opinion she is just the sort of girl to catch 
one of these new men with money.’ ” 

“Ye—es,” said George. 

“And now, my dear fellow, what do you suppose that 
old Jesuit does? I put it to you.” 

George had no idea. 

“Finding the creature has not gone off in the way she 
ought to have, Caroline turns round on me.” 

“You!” George expressed a stolid surprise. 

“Yes, my dear fellow, turns round on me, and has the 
effrontery to expect me—me, George—to marry her.” 

George indulged in a loud chuckle. 

“What do you say to that, my dear fellow? Cool, 
eh?” 

George turned over a page of Horse and Hound slowly 
and with gravity. Apparently he was not at all conscious 
that Cheriton was scrutinizing him narrowly. 


A CONVERSATION AT WARD’S 


“What do you say to it?” 

“Well,” said the heavy, solemn George at last, “I 
should say you were asking for it, Cheriton.” 

Cheriton was baffled. In the manner of the rejoinder 
not a hint of George’s feelings was apparent. 

“Asking for it!” Cheriton’s indignation was pitched 
in a high key. “To say the least, it is a poor encourage¬ 
ment to a good heart.” 

“Well, you know, Cheriton,” said George with a genial 
grunt and addressing himself to Horse and Hound in 
earnest, “you might do worse. Ginger-haired gal is not 
bad-lookin’!” 

There was nothing more to be got out of George. Not 
only did Tattersall’s sale list prove of absorbing interest, 
but fellow members began to encroach upon the privacy 
of the bow window. Among these was the bullet-headed 
marquis from Yorkshire. 

“Give you a good sermon, Kendal?” said Cheriton 
affably. 

“No,” said the marquis slowly and with decision. 
“Too much up in the air for my taste.” 

“Up in the air!” said Cheriton. “I am surprised to 
hear you say that. I thought every parson in Europe had 
abandoned the up-in-the-air theory. They say the king¬ 
dom of heaven is within you these days, don’t they?” 

“Yes,” said the marquis gravely, “and in my opinion 
and in the opinion of Maria they make a great mistake.” 

“Indigestion probably,” said Cheriton with a little 
shrug and taking up the Figaro. “But if you will have 
your cooks from Yorkshire!” 

“By the way,” said Kendal, “I was told this morning 
that Caroline Crewkerne is not expected to recover.” 

“I am able to contradict that rumor,” said Cheriton. 

“Glad to hear it. Caroline is one of the old 
standards.” 


2l6 


ARAMINTA 


“A survivor of a darker age,” said Cheriton. 

“I see that little bay horse of yours made a hundred 
and forty guineas,” said George from behind Horse and 
Hound. 

“Yes,” said Kendal, “and was worth more.” 

“Why did you part with him?” 

“He tried to bite Priscilla.” 

“Vice?” 

“No, only playful.” 

“Talking of Priscilla,” said Cheriton, “has that young 
chap painted her yet?” 

“No,” said Kendal. “My wife has a fancy for 
Halpin.” 

Cheriton shook his head sagely. 

“You are making a mistake,” said he. 

“Halpin is a good man, ain’t he?” 

“Halpin is Halpin, of course; but this young fellow 
Lascelles is the coming man. He has done a wonderful 
portrait of Caroline Crewkerne’s niece.” 

The marquis laughed in the broad Yorkshire manner. 

“I suppose, Cheriton,” said he, “we must congratulate 
you.” 

George laid down Horse and Hound. Cheriton, who 
seemed far more concerned with George’s behavior than 
with Kendal’s question, favored the former with a gesture 
of humorous despair. 

“I believe,” he said to Kendal, “that you* regular church 
goers go to church mainly to keep abreast of the times.” 

“There’s no denying,” said Kendal, with a wink at 
George, “that we manage to do that.” 

“Well, my friend,” said Cheriton, “there is such a thing 
as you regular church goers getting a little in front of the 
times.” 

“People seem to think she is the most beautiful girl in 
England. Priscilla is very jealous.” 


A CONVERSATION AT WARD’S 


217 


“If one were half as handsome as Priscilla,” said the 
discreet Cheriton—for personal beauty was hardly 
Priscilla’s Strong point—“one would not need to be 
jealous of a poor parson’s daughter.” 

“Funny cattle, y’ know. You young bachelors have 
got to find that out. What do you say, George ?” 

George, whose experience of the sex was extensive and 
peculiar, gave a solemn grunt. 

“Anyhow,” said Cheriton in the bounty of his nature, 
“Lascelles is your man. Tell your wife I say so.” 

When Cheriton came to reflect upon George’s attitude, 
that is as far as he was able to discern it, he felt that the 
position of affairs hardly called for immediate action. 
Still, his interview that morning with Caroline Crew- 
kerne had the effect of crystallizing his ideas. He had 
now definitely made up his mind that George Betterton 
should not lead the adorable Miss Perry to the altar. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


MUFFIN MAKES HER APPEARANCE AT 
PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 

I T was now July, and in spite of Goodwood and Lord’s 
and a constant succession of parties, Miss Perry re¬ 
mained faithful to The Acacias. Her attendance at 
the wooden structure in the small Laxton back garden was 
not absolutely necessary, because the picture was in quite 
an advanced stage, but there can be no question that her 
presence was a great aid to the artist. As a rule, Lord 
Cheriton felt it to be his duty to accompany her on these 
pilgrimages. With the disinterested benevolence for 
which he was known, he feared lest the mazes of traffic in 
which the vast metropolis abounded should overwhelm 
that ingenuous but charming child of Nature. More¬ 
over, he seemed to find Mrs. Lascelles a singularly agree¬ 
able companion. 

While the great things of art were toward across the 
garden Mrs. Lascelles and Lord Cheriton would sit in the 
tiny drawing-room with the French window open to the 
grass plot and the fierceness of the obtrusive Laxton sun 
mitigated by a sunblind, striped green and red. Here in 
a couple of wicker-work chairs with ingenious arrange¬ 
ments for the feet they could recline, with half an eye 
upon the wooden structure at the other side of the lawn, 
where the wonderful Miss Perry was just visible in 
chiaroscuro through the open door. They discoursed of 
the golden days when Cheriton was a younger son, and at 
the Embassy at Paris, and used to wear a stripe down the 
leg of his trousers. 


218 


MUFFIN MAKES HER APPEARANCE 


219 


The world itself was younger in those days and giants 
lived in it. That writing fellow who used to swagger at 
the play in a coat of plum-colored velvet and a yellow 
dicky; and the dandies, the poets, the painters, the 
musicians, the men in diplomacy and politics, the gay, 
careless, brilliant, cosmopolitan society that thronged the 
French capital before the Fall—yes, those were the days 
to live in and to remember! But where were they now ? 
Where were the snows of the year before last? 

Let us drink of the cup, for we know not what the 
morrow holds for us, was the burden of Cheriton’s re¬ 
flections. He had seen the clumsy, hulking Germans at 
Versailles in ’71 and he had seen the mutilated city after 
the peace. 

“War is so bete” he said. “And everything is that 
makes us unhappy. I don’t believe that any good thing 
ever sprang out of misery. All the things that are really 
worth while are wrought of happiness. I am sure, Mrs. 
Lascelles, it gave you enormous pleasure to write the first 
chapter of your novel.” 

Jim’s mother blushed a little. She had been prevailed 
upon to read her simple and unpretending narrative of life 
as she saw it, which could find no publisher, because 
“there was not enough in it” for the public taste. 

“We must respect the public,” said Cheriton. “And 
of course we must respect those who diagnose its 
needs. But what a joy it must have been to you to 
compose your little prelude to, shall I say, the works of 
Stendhal!” 

“Mon pauvre Arrigo Beyle!” said Jim’s mother with 
a deepening of color that was really most becoming. 

There was a perceptible movement in the wooden struc¬ 
ture. A form divinely tall and correspondingly fair 
emerged upon the grass plot. It was accompanied by a 
stalwart, velvet-coated cavalier. 


220 


ARAMINTA 


“A short interval for strawberries and cream,” Jim 
announced. 

“Most rational, my dear Lascelles,” said a voice lazily 
musical from the depths of the wicker chair. “As I was 
observing to your mother, the great things of art de¬ 
mand an atmosphere of spontaneous gladness in which 
to get themselves created. Strawberries and cream by 
all means. Do not spare our national delicacy if you 
wish to get a final and consummate glow upon your 
masterpiece.” 

The attention of Miss Perry was fully engaged by the 
rare display upon the tea table of the national delicacy in 
question. 

“Aren't they beauties?” she said thrillingly. “I am 
sure Muffin has picked the biggest in the garden; and 
when I wrote to her I specially told her not to.” 

“Among the happy few,” said Cheriton, “whom one 
particularly desires to meet in the Elysian fields, my dear 
Miss Goose, is your sister Muffin.” 

“She is too, too sweet,” said Miss Perry with enthu¬ 
siasm. “Aren’t they beauties? I am sure you would 
like her so much.” 

After liberal and copious refreshment—the afternoon 
was indeed very hot—Miss Perry and Jim Lascelles re¬ 
turned to the service of art. Jim’s mother was pre¬ 
vailed upon to open the little rosewood piano. She 
played Brahms. Pier touch, in the ear of her audience, 
was deliciously sensitive. She promised to accompany 
my lord on the Friday following to the Opera to hear 
Calve. They discussed the theater and grew enthusiastic 
over the artless witchery of Duse as Mirandola. 

“And soon, my dear Mrs. Lascelles,” said Cheriton 
with his paternal air, “you will be off to the sea, no 
doubt.” 

“If,” said Jim’s mother hopefully, “the little study of 



MUFFIN MAKES HER APPEARANCE 


221 


Tuscan peasant woman in the field of olives finds a 
purchaser.” 

One feels sure it will,” said Cheriton with perhaps a 
better-grounded faith. 

Cheriton was justified of it, however. A few days 
later Jim Lascelles contrived to sell that not specially 
significant little work for forty pounds. In his own 
judgment and in that of others this sum was every penny 
of what it was worth. It was so obviously a picture in 
which he was seeking the right way, in that carelessly 
happy era before the right way came to him so miracu¬ 
lously. 

The sale of the Tuscan peasant woman in the field of 
olives was indeed providential, for Jim himself had 
abandoned all hope of the sea for that year. Yet neither 
he nor his mother was altogether surprised that a corner 
was found for her in one of the minor rooms at Cheriton 
House. 

“It’s a great bargain,” said Mrs. Lascelles. “Really 
she is worth so much more.” 

“A modest fiver represents her merits,” said Jim, who 
was without illusions upon the subject. 

Nevertheless Jim and his mother proposed to spend a 
whole month in Normandy upon the proceeds of the sale. 
Cheriton, who had inherited a little suppressed gout along 
with the ancestral acres, made his annual pilgrimage to 
Harrogate to drink the waters, and the Hill Street menage 
was removed to a dilapidated fortress in Wales. And 
it was to this retreat, by a signal act of grace, of which 
few would have suspected its authoress to be capable, that 
Muffin was summoned from Slocum Magna to spend a 
fortnight with her sister “who, all things considered, had 
been a good girl.” 

When Araminta communicated this glad news to 
Tobias she wept large round tears of delight. That stay 


222 


ARAMINTA 


of her solitude had, by the guilty connivance of Miss 
Burden, been provided during the second week of his so¬ 
journ in London with a local habitation more hygienic 
and commodious than a wicker basket. 

Muffin arrived at Pen-y-Gros Castle on a sultry August 
afternoon in a rather antiquated fly which took an hour 
to crawl from the railway station at Dwygyfy Junction, 
or words to that effect. It appeared that the train was 
due to arrive at that center of civilization at seven o’clock 
the previous evening, but for some mysterious reason did 
not get there until the next day. At least, according to 
Muffin's thrilling narrative of her adventures upon the 
Cambrian Railway, at a quarter to eleven the previous 
night she had found herself at a place called Llan- 
something, where they have the mountains, with only four 
shillings and ninepence in her chain purse, together with a 
return ticket from Dwygyfy and a canary in a wicker 
cage, which she had brought from Slocum Magna for 
Aunt Caroline. 

However, “all’s well that ends well,” as Shakespeare 
says. Muffin accepted the situation in the philosophical 
spirit for which she had already gained a reputation. 
She curled herself up on three chairs in the first-class wait¬ 
ing room at the railway station at Llan-something, with 
Polly’s luggage-basket for her pillow and the canary by 
her side, and she awoke just in time to catch the train to 
Dwygyfy Junction about noon the next day. 

Muffin’s hair was not quite so yellow as her sister’s, her 
eyes were not quite so blue, her appetite was not quite so 
big, her physique was hardly so overpowering. And if 
her speech and manner had a little less originality, her 
nature was equally docile and responsive. When Muffin 
arrived in triumph, wearing her wonderful adventures 
like a heroine in a romance, Aunt Caroline was in her 
boudoir. In a former and more warlike epoch it had 


MUFFIN MAKES HER APPEARANCE 223 


been the armory, but it was now transformed by the art 
of Waring and Maple into a most comfortable sanctuary 
where an old devote could tell her beads. Not that 
the occupant of the boudoir was thus engaged when Ara- 
minta led her sister proudly by the hand, canary and 
all, into the presence of this august and formidable 
relation. 

“Aunt Caroline, this is Muffin!” announced Miss 
Featherbrain all in one breath. “Isn’t she a sweet?” 

The first thing Aunt Caroline did was to put on her 
spectacles. But there was something about Muffin that 
disarmed her. Whether it was Muffin herself or her 
famous mauve frock, which although in its third season 
and decidedly rumpled owing to long exposure on the 
Cambrian Railway, was certainly very becoming, or 
whether it was the canary, or her charming docility, or 
her frank simplicity, it would be difficult to say, but Aunt 
Caroline accepted the present and a most enthusiastic em¬ 
brace in the spirit in which they were given. 

“I have brought you this, Aunt Caroline,” said Muffin, 
“because you have been so kind to Araminta and because 
it is so dear of you to have me.” 

‘Thank you, my dear,” said Aunt Caroline. 

Aunt Caroline actually said, “My dear!” 

It may have been that recent illness had lowered her 
vitality, yet it is hard to believe that such was really the 
case, for she was still a very resolute-minded old woman. 
But Miss Burden was amazed that she should indulge in 
such a warmth of expression. Ponto was too. Indeed, 
he appeared to resent it, for he sat up on his tail and 
looked daggers at the canary. 

In every way Muffin’s fortnight was a great success. 
She took the frankest pleasure in ascending mountains, in 
bestriding waterfalls, in leaping chasms, in descending 
precipices, and in tearing her frock on the slightest 


224 


ARAMINTA 


possible pretext. Not her mauve, of course. The 
piece de resistance of her extremely limited wardrobe was 
kept in reserve for high day and holy days. But she gave 
up the golden hours to the sheer delight of soaking her 
shoes and stockings in sloughs and watercourses which 
an unerring instinct enabled her to find in the most un¬ 
likely places; in rending her garments—second best, of 
course, so they really did not matter; in tearing her 
fingers upon the briars and bowlders and furze-bushes; 
and in using the brand new straw hat the general outfitter 
at Slocum Magna had supplied her with for the sum of 
one shilling and eleven pence three farthings—there is 
only one price for straw hats at Slocum Magna—to con¬ 
vey rare ferns and far-sought specimens of the fauna and 
flora of the neighborhood. 

Muffin was a curiously learned creature. She could tell 
who was the lawful owner of the pink egg with brown 
spots or the gray egg with cerise ones. She could point 
out the tracks of the weasel; she could see where a 
squirrel lurked among the foliage when the ordinary per¬ 
son would have been baffled completely. She was 
familiar with the habits and appearance of the stoat. 
Every tree and bush enabled her to unfold her knowledge. 
Not only did it embrace each living object, but also she 
had a passion for collecting every wayside flower and 
every herb that grew. 

Her fund of information and her desire for more was 
not confined to dry land merely. In the numerous rills 
and small lakes in which the mountains abounded she spent 
many choice hours. Sometimes she removed her stock¬ 
ings and shoes; sometimes she did not. It depended upon 
whether she happened to remember these trammels to an 
inquiring mind before wading forth in search of trout or 
minnows or mere botanical knowledge. However, as be¬ 
came an acknowledged leader of fashion at Slocum 


MUFFIN MAKES HER APPEARANCE 225 

Magna, she generally contrived in some sort to kilt her 
dress. 

In all undertakings of this character, whether by flood 
or field, Muffin was preeminent. But her sister Goose 
was a very willing and by no means inefficient lieutenant. 
Of course, one so accomplished as Muffin despised her at¬ 
tainments really. For instance, Goose was never quite 
clear as to which was a weasel and which was a stoat, and 
whether a plover made a whirr with its wings like a 
partridge, and which kind of fish it was for which herons 
had such a weakness; but Goose, although “rather a 
silly,” was brimming with zeal and docility. Indeed, 
docility was her strong point. She was incapable of 
questioning the most arbitrary command of her natural 
superior. 

Elizabeth was Muffin’s name in baptism, and that, of 
course, was the name Aunt Caroline called her by. From 
the very first her august relation was inclined to view her 
favorably. Why she had done so baffled all who had 
expert knowledge of that old woman’s character. She 
may have felt instinctively that there was something in 
Elizabeth. If that was the case, her instinct did not lead 
her astray. 

There was certainly no guile in Muffin. But she had a 
way with her. She was a very handsome creature, al¬ 
though whether she was of a style to take the town as her 
sister had is perhaps a matter for conjecture. But for 
some reason Aunt Caroline took to her at once. She even 
deigned on fine mornings to accompany Elizabeth into the 
woods that enfold Pen-y-Gros Castle on every side, 
walking quite nimbly with the aid of her stick and with 
Ponto waddling beside her. She would endure Eliza¬ 
beth’s discourse upon the fowls of the air and the beasts 
of the field, and she would even go the length of taking 
personal charge of the specimens Elizabeth chose of the 


226 


ARAMINTA 


flora of the district. And the manner in which Elizabeth 
navigated the lake at the foot of the mountains or the 
stream behind the castle filled her with amusement. 

Two days before the fortnight was at an end Aunt 
Caroline did an unprecedented thing. She invited Muffin 
to stay a fortnight longer. Muffin crowed with delight 
when she received the invitation. She adored her sister 
Goose. Each had brought up the other, and neither had 
a thought which the other did not share. And in her 
fearless and impulsive way Muffin had formed in her own 
mind an ardently idealist picture of her formidable 
relation. Neither good report nor ill could possibly dis¬ 
turb it. 

“The girl has sense,” said Aunt Caroline to her gentle¬ 
woman on the day the edict was issued that Elizabeth was 
to remain a fortnight longer at Pen-y-Gros Castle. “She 
is like what I was at her age. I think George Betterton 
ought to see her. Bring me some ink and a pen with a 
broad point.” 

There and then the old woman composed a letter for the 
benefit of the Duke of Brancaster in a hand that was 
remarkably firm and full of character. 

Pen-y-Gros Castle, North Wales, 

25 th August, 190-. 

Dear George,—If you are returned from Homhurg, 
come and spend a week-end here. Wales is looking very 
well just now and the lake is full of trout. I should like 
you to have your revenge at piquet. 

Believe me. 

Very sincerely yours, 
Caroline Crewkerne. 

No sooner had this letter gone forth than the Fates 
themselves began to take an active interest in affairs. In 


MUFFIN MAKES HER APPEARANCE 227 

that particular comer of the Welsh principality the air 
grew charged with magnetism. 

The letter to George Betterton had scarcely been posted 
an hour when a communication bearing the Harrogate 
postmark was delivered to the Countess of Crewkerne, 
Pen-y-Gros Castle. It said:— 

My dear Caroline,—Having effected my annual cure, 
and feeling in consequence immeasurably the better able 
in mind and body to cope with the things of this world, 1 
venture to propose myself as a week-end guest in your 
Welsh fastness. You will be interested to learn that 1 
have given a certain matter the most anxious considera¬ 
tion, which is of course demanded by its highly critical 
nature. 1 am now in a position to make a definite offer 
provided there has been no foreclosure. 

I remain, my dear Caroline, 

Always yours, 
Cheriton. 

Having read this letter twice very carefully, the 
recipient proceeded to tear it into small pieces. There 
was an ominous light in her eye. 

“Humph!” said she. “I am by no means sure, my 
friend, that you have not overstayed your market.” 

All the same, the second communication did not appear 
wholly to displease the person to whom it was addressed. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


EPISODE OF A FRENCH NOVEL AND A RED 

UMBRELLA 

I T was in the middle of Saturday afternoon that 
Cheriton arrived at Pen-y-Gros Castle by the station 
fly from Dwygyfy Junction. George Betterton had 
arrived at the same hour the previous afternoon and by 
the same medium of travel. Cheriton was received by his 
hostess without any excess of cordiality. Her demeanor 
implied that those who presumed to try a fall with her did 
so at their peril. 

The other members of the party were in the woods, and 
after Cheriton had taken some slight refreshment, the 
August evening being very beautiful, Miss Burden and he 
went to join them. The party consisted merely of 
George Betterton, the fair Araminta and the accomplished 
Elizabeth. Miss Burden had been strictly enjoined not to 
disclose the presence of either of the newcomers. 

“How is our delectable Miss Goose ?” said Cheriton 
poetically. “Transformed I am sure into a woodland 
creature or a spirit of the mountains.” 

A quarter of a mile or so along the wooded path which 
led from the Castle to the wild hills was a shallow lake. 
Formed by a number of tiny streams that trickled down 
from the mountains, an artist could hardly do less than 
erect his easel in this picturesque place. It was indeed an 
ideal spot, in which Nature attained to a signal majesty. 
The August evening matched it. And in the middle 

distance hardly a cloud ringed the noble head of Gwydr. 

228 


EPISODE OF A FRENCH NOVEL 229 


A glance in passing at the artist’s canvas proved to 
Cheriton and Miss Burden that the painter was not really 
so much absorbed in the scenery as he ought to have been. 
It seemed that a youthful, yellow-haired, blue-eyed 
nymph, whose physical proportions were yet not exactly 
those of a fairy, was standing barefooted in the lake. 
Her dress, which was tom in at least twenty-four places, 
was kilted up just out of reach of the water. In one hand 
she held a collection of the fauna and flora of Lake 
Dwygy; by means of the other she was diligently adding 
to their number. The yellow hair was tumbled about 
her extremely frank and sunburned countenance; the 
sleeves of a sorely rent and bedraggled garment were 
tucked up to the elbows; and a remarkably characteristic 
form of headgear, preserving the outward appearance of 
a cucumber basket, sagged about her ears in a preposter¬ 
ously becoming manner. 

Cheriton was rather near-sighted. Therefore the 
error into which he fell was not unnatural. 

“A naiad, I perceive,” said he with his great air. 

Muffin was not at all abashed by the courtliness of my 
lord. She made a sort of courtsey, whose quaintness, 
dignity, grace and simplicity had quite an eighteenth- 
century effect. Unfortunately, the performance involved 
the hem of her garments in the waters of Lake Dwygy. 

“I am Muffin,” said she, as though she took a simple 
pride in that fact. “Did you think I was Goose?” 

“A thousand pardons, my dear Miss Muffin,” said 
Cheriton, although it was tolerably clear that neither 
Miss Muffin nor himself felt that an apology was de¬ 
manded by the circumstances. 

“They call me Muffin, you know,” said that artless 
person, wringing the water out of her skirts with wonder¬ 
ful insouciance. “But my name is Elizabeth really. 
You are Lord Something, are you not?” 


230 


ARAMINTA 


“My name is Gieriton,” said that peer, scrutinizing the 
naiad with a cool and complacent eye. 

“It is so dear of you to be so good to Goose.” 

“My dear young lady!” 

“Lord Cheriton is so good to everybody,” said a manly, 
pleasant voice. “But unfortunately he is ruining my 
picture.” 

Cheriton turned to confront Jim Lascelles. 

“Why, Lascelles, my dear fellow, pray what are you 
doing here? Isn’t your place in Normandy with your 
mother?” 

“She is here,” said Jim. “We came on Wednes¬ 
day.” 

“Either this Js a very singular coincidence or you are 
making uncommonly rapid strides in your art.” 

“Coincidence it is not, sir. We spent three delightful 
weeks in Normandy, and then the scenery began to get 
flat and the inhabitants primitive and angular. And as 
Borrow says that there are mountains in Wales and that 
its inhabitants are noted for their picturesqueness, we 
really felt that a week here would not be wasted.” 

“Lascelles,” said his patron gravely, “I may not live to 
see it, but it is clear to my mind that one day you will be 
President of the Royal Academy.” 

“My mother seems to think so too,” said Jim modestly. 

That lady was to be seen coming round the lake towards 
the easel. Quagmires abounded, but she picked her way 
from stone to stone in the daintiest manner. Jim felt 
quite proud of her. In her cool, green frock she looked 
most attractive. She carried a novel and a red umbrella. 
As soon as Muffin saw her she waded shorewards to meet 
her. 

Cheriton’s gaze was long and particular. 

“Upon my word,” said he, “they appear to grow god¬ 
desses at Slocum Magna.” 


EPISODE OF A FRENCH NOVEL 231 

Mrs. Lascelles’ greeting of my lord was very cordial in¬ 
deed. 

“A pleasure one was far from expecting,” said he, 
bowing over her hand. 

“I am not to be censured, I hope, for urging my gifted 
son to follow the bent of his genius?” 

“By no means,” said Cheriton. “If he really felt that 
the Welsh mountains and their fair denizens were calling 
him, it is most right. Velasquez would not have been 
Velasquez had he not obeyed the call to Italy.” 

“That Goose is to blame,” said Jim’s mother severely. 
“She must write to say that they had got Muffin at Pen-y- 
Gros, as well as the mountains. He gave up painting his 
Normandy peasant girls on the day he received the 
letter.” 

“Miss Muffin,” said my lord, “allow me to ask one 
question. Have you brought your mauve frock?” 

“Oh yes,” said Muffin. “But it is not good for water.” 

“Water, I presume, is not good for it.” 

Muffin proceeded to wring a little more moisture out of 
her nether garments. She gave them an additional kilt 
and began to come ashore. 

“Keep in,” cried Jim in a tone that made the moun¬ 
tains echo. “Keep those Foot Pieces covered, or you 
will ruin everything.” 

“You have an eye for the picturesque,” said Cheriton, 
turning archly to Jim’s mother. “When you read the 
second chapter of your novel I ventured to remark upon 
it. Unfortunately, my own power of vision is so limited 
that I don’t always know good scenery when I see it. 
Those tall things are mountains, are they not?” 

“We have the authority of Borrow that they are, I be¬ 
lieve,” was the demure reply. 

“Capital,” said my lord. “As our presence here may 
interfere with the nice conduct of a masterpiece, do you 


232 


ARAMINTA 


mind showing me how to walk upon them? It is 
reckoned a good thing, I believe, to be able to say one has 
walked upon the mountains.” 

Accompanied by the French novel and the red umbrella, 
Cheriton picked his way along the margin of Lake 
Dwygy in patent leather boots with boxcloth uppers. It 
was a beauteous evening, calm and free. Not a sound 
was to be heard except the muffled murmur of the tiny 
wavelets washing the pebbles upon which they walked. 
Occasionally they heard a wood pigeon call from the dense 
black mass behind them, embowering the hamlet of Pen- 
y-Gros. Once Mrs. Lascelles thought she detected the 
pipe of the curlew. Facing them was the giant Gwydr, 
with the August sunset beginning to peer over his 
shoulder. His majesty was crowned with a glory that 
was older than he. 

The naiad and the Painter’s easel were hidden now 
by a bend of the lake. They were out of sight and out 
of hearing. The red umbrella came to rest on a large 
and smooth fragment of slate, raised in such a manner 
that it formed an ideal seat for two persons. Two ad¬ 
mirers of Nature's majesty gazed around them at the im¬ 
mensity of things. Neither spoke for a little while. It 
may have been awe that enfolded them, or it may have 
been a slight fatigue. For at least all experience tends to 
show that French novels, red umbrellas and patent leather 
boots with boxcloth uppers are more susceptible to the 
latter emotion than they are to the former. Still, it is not 
to be denied that Cheriton sighed profoundly. 

“If one were that fellow Rousseau,” said he, “one 
would want to sit down and write something.” 

“Doubtless one would have done so,” said the owner of 
the red umbrella, “had one been Rousseau.” 

She sat down with her French novel on the smaller half 
of the fragment of slate. She looked deliciously cool and 


EPISODE OF A FRENCH NOVEL 233 


trim in her green linen frock, embellished by a hat with a 
wide brim plaited by a Breton peasant woman the pre¬ 
vious summer. It had a piece of crepe twisted round it. 
Did she know that she was looking well, or had she per¬ 
suaded herself that she was wholly absorbed in high 
thoughts about Nature? 

'‘Or if one were Wordsworth one would feel the same 
possibly,” said the fair inhabitant of the green frock. 

Pour encourager milor? Who can say? The emo¬ 
tions of a French novel, a red umbrella and a green linen 
frock with a twist of blue crepe are so complex. Nature 
is complex also. Gwydr was straight before them with 
the sun dying upon his left shoulder. His lesser brethren 
were already veiled in shadow. The lake had the luster 
of a dark jewel; the sky was opalescent; and scarcely 
two hundred yards away, behind a row of bowlders, the 
great things of art were toward. 

The wearer of the patent leather boots sat down grace¬ 
fully upon the larger half of the slate, after dusting it 
carefully with a yellow silk handkerchief. 

“Yes,” said he, “had one been Rousseau one would 
have sat here and have written about Nature. But had 
one been Wordsworth one would have sat here and 
thought about Nature. There is a difference.” 

Mrs. Lascelles agreed that there was. 

“I wonder,” said she, “if Nature holds an opinion about 
us ? When one finds her like this, one feels that she must 
be indifferent to everything.” 

“That weird fellow Gautier might have agreed with 
you, ‘Ouf!’ he used to say, ‘Nature reminds me of your 
Shakespeare. Every day she makes a new masterpiece. 
And then she says, “Ouf! it doesn’t interest me,” and 
makes another.’ ” 

“Heedless of its destiny.” 

“Rightly, I think. A masterpiece can always take care 


234 


ARAMINTA 


of itself. Can you guess what Beyle would have done 
had he sat here?” 

“Smoked a cigarette.” 

“Precisely. He was so rational. Will you try one?” 

Cheriton offered his case. Mrs. Lascelles chose one 
with the guaranty that it was very mild. They began to 
smoke. 

There would have been silence but for the fowls of the 
air. Jim’s mother thought that she heard again the pipe 
of the curlew. The sun nestled a little closer to the 
giant’s shoulder. 

“A penny for your thoughts.” 

Jim’s mother was perceptibly startled. 

“I was thinking—I was thinking about my son.” 

“One had guessed it.” 

“Really!” 

“By the look in your eyes.” 

“I am so anxious about his future,” she said with 
simplicity and solicitude. As she did this Cheriton took 
occasion to observe that her eyes were gray. Her face 
did not obey the regular canons of beauty, its features 
were perhaps a little haphazard; but it was a face of an¬ 
imation and fine sense. Cheriton, who plumed himself 
upon being something of a connoisseur of the human 
countenance, felt that there was a great deal in it. 

“Surely,” said he, “such a future can take care of it¬ 
self.” 

“I will tell you something, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s 
mother with great earnestness. “There is a wretched 
girl.” In the gray eyes was a look of dismay. 

“The dooce!” 

“He can think of nothing else. Really, one hardly 
knows what will be the end of it all.” 

“I hope you approve.” 

“She hardly belongs to the region of practical politics, 


EPISODE OF A FRENCH NOVEL 235 

I am afraid. It would not be fair. I have been foolish 
and weak.” Cheriton seemed to hang on her words. 
Feminine humility is very pleasant to some people. “You 
see, she meant so much to Jim that at first I had not the 
courage to look the facts in the face. Yet now one has 
done so, I am afraid it is too late to undo the mischief.” 

Cheriton seemed to cock his ears at the word. 

“He has asked her to marry him and she has con¬ 
sented.” 

“Capital!” 

“No, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s mother with a little 
catch in her voice, “it is very far from being that. It is 
not in the least right that they should marry. Nor is it 
right that he should have asked her.” 

In a subtle way, so fine are the gradations of human 
vanity, Cheriton felt himself to be honored by the almost 
tragic vehemence of Jim’s mother. Her tone was full of 
emotion. Had the gray eyes been accustomed to tears 
there is little doubt they would have shed them. 

“I smiled at first. Perhaps one encouraged him a little. 
One felt it might help his art.” 

“Ah!” murmured Cheriton, fixing his eyeglass upon 
Gwydr. 

“One didn’t realize the danger.” 

Cheriton continued to regard Gwydr most sagaciously. 

“It was very wicked.” 

“My dear Mrs. Lascelles, do not let us put it higher 
than imprudent.” Cheriton bestowed a paternal glance 
at the picture of distress seated by his side. “You ven¬ 
tured to play with a barrel of gunpowder and a lighted 
torch and you found them combustible.” 

“They are hopelessly in love.” 

“Both of ’em!” 

“She is quite as bad as he. Girls are such stupid 
creatures.” 


236 


ARAMINTA 


“I have always found them so.” 

“The absurd creature ought to have seen from the first 
that a struggling artist cannot possibly marry her.” 

“May I ask why not?” 

“She has been the success of the London season.” 

Cheriton became quite grave. 

“Seriously, Mrs. Lascelles,” he said, “do you assure 
me that this young woman is too good for your son ?” 

Jim’s mother had to confess that such was not quite the 
case. 

“Quite so,” said Cheriton. “That is the point. Can 
the mother of any man allow that any girl is too good for 
him? Besides, if girls will be so stupid they must take 
the consequences. It is your duty to see that your son 
marries her.” 

“Do you really think it is?” 

“You know it is, Mrs. Lascelles,” said Cheriton almost 
sternly. “And you know that you will. It is the least a 
woman and a mother can do in the circumstances.” 

The mother of Jim Lascelles sighed deeply. 

“Yes, Lord Cheriton,” said she, “I am afraid you are 
right.” 

The gray eyes were fixed upon Gwydr. But Gwydr 
appeared to frown upon them. 

Mrs. Lascelles and Lord Cheriton sat a long time on the 
slab of slate by the edge of Lake Dwygy. The sun 
drooped lower on Gwydr’s left shoulder and the shadows 
crept down from the formidable chasm of the Devil’s 
Footstool and across the black tinted water. Suddenly 
round a buttress of rock a punt glided into view. It was 
propelled by a pole and contained two persons. 

The foremost of these, who stood in the bows manipu¬ 
lating the pole, was a blue-eyed yellow-haired Amazon. 
Bare-armed and bare-headed, her cheeks were gay with 
color, her voice with laughter. Untrammeled freedom 


EPISODE OF A FRENCH NOVEL 237 

and the joy of living were to be seen in every line of that 
ample form. Beside her was a Homburg hat with a 
Guards’ ribbon. 

“That man!’’ exclaimed the male occupant of the slab 
of slate. 

Clearly such an apparition was unlooked for by the 
author of the exclamation. If his tone and manner were 
a true index to his feelings, the arrival of George Better- 
ton was not at all welcome. 

His Grace came ashore with an ample sense of responsi¬ 
bility befitting his years and degree. He handed Miss 
Perry out of the punt with quite an air of ceremony, and 
insisted upon taking a hand in fixing the boat to its moor¬ 
ings. After removing his hat and mopping his brow he 
proceeded to survey Nature in her magnificence and her 
immensity. Then he gazed up at the daughter of Nature 
who appeared to be modeled on lines very similar. 

“By the way,” said he, “what time is dinner?” 

“It isn’t until half-past eight,” said a low-pitched, far- 
reaching voice which had a mournful music of its own. 
“Isn’t it late?” 

“That man is a barbarian,” said Cheriton to Mrs. 
Lascelles. 

“And what of the other?” 

“She is a goddess.” 

“Then she must be a barbarian too. There never was 
a goddess who was not a barbarian, was there?” 

There were things in the punt, it appeared. To wit, a 
rod and tackle and a basket containing a very tolerable 
capture of trout. 

“Aren’t they beauties!” cried Miss Perry as she came 
ashore with the basket. “If I run with them straight to 
the cook perhaps we might have some for dinner.” 

The Amazon, surprisingly fleet of foot, was proceeding 
to put this design into execution when she came full upon 


238 


ARAMINTA 


Mrs. Lascelles and Lord Cheriton. The unexpected 
presence of the latter seemed to give her enormous 
pleasure. 

“How nice it is that you have come!” she proclaimed 
with slow breathlessness. “Muffin is here. Have you 
seen her? Isn’t she too sweet? And these trout are 
beauties, aren’t they? Gobo caught seven and I caught 
two. I will just run with them to the cook and then I 
will find Muffin.” 

Before it was possible to frame a fitting reply Miss 
Perry went on to the Castle in the manner of a heavy- 
footed yet distinctly swift-moving whirlwind. 

“The ridiculous creature!” laughed Jim’s mother. 

“Atalanta develops now she is in her native element,” 
said my lord. 

George Betterton having bestowed a few final touches 
upon the moorings of the punt came up along the pebbles. 
He carried the rod and tackle. His tread was heavy and 
he was blowing like a grampus with his exertions. The 
presence of Cheriton did not surprise him at all. With 
the reserve of true Britons they greeted one another. 

“Fine evenin’,” said George. 

“Fine evening,” said Cheriton. 

“For fish,” said Jim’s mother, “they seem to have 
bitten quite wonderfully.” 

“Caught fourteen,” said George. “They average two 
pound apiece if they average an ounce.” 

“I understood Araminta to say you had caught nine,” 
said the severely literal Mrs. Lascelles. 

“Fourteen,” said George with the air of a man who 
does not brook contradiction lightly. “Where’s the gal 
got to?” 

“Little Miss Tucker would like trout for her supper,” 
said Cheriton. “There she goes. Leaps the bowlders 
like a chamois, by gad!” 


EPISODE OF A FRENCH NOVEL 239 

“I tell you what, Cheriton,” said George with an air of 
information, “that young gal can handle a punt with the 
best of ’em. Knows how to cast a fly too. Very sure 
hand. Uncommon smart gal at fishin’.” 

“You surprise me,” said Cheriton. “Three minnows 
in a net one would expect to be the limit of her talent in 
the art of Piscator.” 

“There is a charming little trout stream behind the 
Vicarage at Slocum Magna,” said Mrs. Lascelles. 

“Seen her sister, Cheriton?” inquired George. “They 
call her Crumpet. Smart young gal.” 

“Muffin, my dear fellow, Muffin,” said his friend in a 
tone of pained expostulation. 

“Smart as paint,” said George, with a perilous approach 
to enthusiasm. “Makes her own flies and tackle, and 
can find as much bait in a quarter of an hour as will last 
for a week.” 

“The merits of a good upbringing,” said Cheriton, 
rising slowly from the slab of slate, “are not easily to be 
over-estimated.” 

Mrs. Lascelles also rose. All three strolled by the edge 
of the lake until they came upon the painter and his easel. 
Jim was doing his best with what remained of the day¬ 
light. There was still a glow about Gwydr’s left 
shoulder which was reflected upon the canvas. Muffin 
was seated on the pebbles complacently putting on her 
shoes and stockings. 

“Did you catch anything?” she demanded of the bearer 
of the rod and tackle. 

“Sixteen.” 

“How splendid! Do let me see them.” 

“You will have to wait until dinner, my dear. They 
have gone to the pot.” 

“Good progress, Lascelles?” inquired Cheriton, con¬ 
ducting an amused examination of Jim’s labors. 


240 


ARAMINTA 


“I think I have done a fair day’s work, sir,” said Jim, 
packing up his tools. 

“Yes, I think you have. I must have the refusal of 
this for Cheriton House. By the way, have you heard 
anything from my friend Kendal?” 

“I am to go to Yorkshire in the autumn to paint Lady 
Priscilla.” 

“Excellent! And remember, if Kendal is to respect 
your art your price must be not a penny less than five 
hundred guineas.” 

As the party turned away from the lake a dryad 
emerged from the wood breathless and bareheaded. She 
had three trout in a basket. 

“It will be all right,” she announced. “We are going 
to have them for dinner. There are six, one apiece for 
everybody except Ponto, and Miss Burden thinks trout 
are not good for him. And I’ve brought three for you, 
dear Mrs. Lascelles.” 

“Then you are a very noble girl,” said Jim’s mother, 
“and I highly appreciate your act of self-sacrifice.” 

By this time Muffin had resumed her shoes and stock¬ 
ings and had risen from the pebbles. Her sister took her 
by the hand and led her forward with an air of the most 
admirable simplicity. 

“Lord Cheriton,” said she, “this is Muffin.” 

“I am already honored,” said my lord, “by an 
acquaintance which I shall strive to cultivate.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


PARIS ON MOUNT IDA 

M ISS PERRY insisted on conducting Jim and 
his mother to their lodgings, which were at a 
small cottage in Pen-y-Gros hamlet. She was 
afraid they might get lost in the wood. Jim’s mother 
took the trout within, while Jim conducted Miss Perry 
back to the gate of Pen-y-Gros Castle. It seemed that he 
was haunted by the fear that in the gloom she might take 
the wrong turning. 

The Wargrave coat of arms was emblazoned on a stone 
pillar at the castle entrance. They leaned against it. 
The evening shadows were fast blotting out Gwydr and 
his brethren. 

“Goose Girl,” said Jim mournfully, “we are in pretty 
deep water, you and I, aren’t we?” 

“It will be all right, Jim,” said Miss Perry cheerfully. 
“You are sure to get rich painting all these pictures. It 
is a splendid idea to paint Muffin. Her picture will be 
worth a lot of money. And I am sure when you are rich 
Aunt Caroline will let me marry you.” 

Jim shook his head sorrowfully. 

“Chaps don’t often get rich at my trade. And when 
they do, it doesn’t happen all at once. Now suppose, 
Goose Girl, I did not get rich. Suppose I was only just 
able to rub along as I do now, what would you say 
then?” 

“I should like it all the better,” said Miss Perry with 

conviction, “because then I shouldn’t have to have a 

241 


242 


ARAMINTA 


maid. A maid loses her temper, you know, if you put 
things in your hat or you get mud on your frock or you 
get up too early.” 

“But don’t you see, you Goose,” said Jim, “that you 
have such grand prospects, and that it would be 
such a great thing for the family if you married a 
swell.” 

“Would it, Jim?” said Miss Perry reluctantly. 

“Of course it would, you Goose.” 

Miss Perry indulged in silence and reflection. 

“Perhaps you are right, Jim,” said she. “And if I 
did you would be able to marry Muffin, and that would 
be ever so much nicer for you.” 

Jim gave an exclamation of impatience. 

“Who wants to marry Muffin, you great Goose ?” 

“But, Jim,” said Miss Perry gravely, “she is such 
a-” 

“Never mind what she is. I have my own opinion 
about her. I want to marry you, and I mean to.” 

In spite of the proximity of the Wargrave coat of 
arms, Jim Lascelles thereupon behaved in a very im¬ 
perious and heedless manner. He encircled the ample 
form of Miss Perry and kissed her with great boldness. 
As no resistance was forthcoming, the operation was 
repeated. 

“You great Goose!” he said. 

Whether in the further absence of resistance Jim 
Lascelles would have continued in this behavior is hardly 
a profitable speculation. For at this moment there came 
an interruption. A small, round dog came waddling 
through the gate of Pen-y-Gros Castle. His tail was 
curled up in a most cynical manner and with eyes swollen 
with baked meats he gazed about him with the insolence 
of a feudal lord. 

“Aunt Caroline!” whispered Miss Perry. There was 



PARIS ON MOUNT IDA 


243 


guilt on her conscience no doubt. She drew herself in 
very close to the pillar. 

“She wouldn’t come out in the dusk/’ said Jim. “It’s 
only Ponto taking the air to get an appetite for dinner.” 

Jim picked up a pebble and with exact and careful aim 
dropped it on the supercilious nose of that overfed ani¬ 
mal. 

“Now, Goose Girl,” said Jim, “it is high time you went 
up to dress, or you’ll get none of those trout.” 

This reminder caused Miss Perry to flee. It was past 
eight already. Aunt Caroline brooked no delay, and 
Fanchette hated to hurry. 

Jim walked sadly home to his evening chop. Why 
was he so poor? Why had he not more strength of 
character? The part he was playing was surely an un¬ 
worthy one. It was the behavior of a spoil sport to 
be in Wales at all. 

However, the person most concerned was far from 
intending to have his sport spoilt by anybody. Cheriton, 
in any event, felt fully competent to bring his suit to a 
successful issue. He had made the tedious journey to 
Pen-y-Gros for no other purpose. 

It is true the unexpected presence of George Betterton 
was a little disquieting. Some six weeks had passed 
since their Sunday morning conversation at Ward’s. 
The estimate he had then made of the temperature of 
George’s affections had had a marked influence on his 
subsequent conduct. In the purview of this cool and 
wary calculator George was a decoy put up by Caroline 
Crewkerne to lure him into the mesh. 

All the same, such a theory was not devoid of peril. 
And if George had had the wit to mask his intentions 
George indubitably would win the prize. Frankly he did 
not believe that George had the skill for such Machiavel¬ 
lian tactics. He was one of those plain, clumsy fellow's 


244 


ARAMINTA 


whom a child might read. Superficial observers of the 
Kendal type were always apt to jump far too quickly to 
conclusions. Quite a number of these had given George 
the prize already. But Cheriton built upon a more exact 
knowledge. George was a solid Tory who, when it came 
to the point, would think twice before making a duchess 
of a parson’s penniless daughter. 

Nevertheless, when he took in the wonderful Miss 
Perry, who, in spite of all that Fanchette could do, had 
kept dinner waiting nearly ten minutes, he was a little 
inclined to consider that he had run an unwarrantable 
risk for the mere pleasure of indulging his natural vein 
of cynicism. George was rather boastful about the trout, 
which were certainly delicious. And at the same time 
he waxed enthusiastic over Miss Perry’s conduct of the 
punt and her manner of casting a fly. Moreover, he 
declared she could hook and play a fish with anybody. 

“That is most interesting, my dear George,” said 
Cheriton from across the table. “But what you say 
merely confirms the opinion one ha£ long held of the 
sex.” 

“I should like to see her with salmon,” said George. 
“I should like to see her on Mallock Water.” 

“Muffin is ever so much better than I am,” said Miss 
Perry. 

“She must come too,” said George. 

“Yes, it may be all right,” murmured his watchful 
adversary with a little sigh. “I think the old fool is 
to be trusted.” 

Yet was he? Throughout the whole of dinner that 
problem loomed before him. No doubt it was the at¬ 
titude of his hostess combined with the guilt upon his 
conscience which provoked uneasiness. That old woman 
had assumed a front of concentrated scorn which even 
she had never surpassed. And to make things worse. 


PARIS ON MOUNT IDA 


245 

she was continually putting forth sardonic little hints 
which were palpably aimed at his self-security. 

There could be no doubt that Caroline Crewkerne was 
a bad one to cross. And further, there could be no 
doubt that she bitterly resented what she called “Cheri- 
ton’s tactics.” Had he not committed the unpardonable 
offense of seeing through and making light of her de¬ 
vices ? It required a very bold person indeed to do that. 

After dinner Araminta and Elizabeth had a game of 
billiards while their elders played cards. Caroline Crew¬ 
kerne had developed a talent for bridge, which consider¬ 
ing her advanced age was surprising. Miss Burden also 
was learning to play well, although it is true that she suf¬ 
fered from a cardinal weakness. Her reluctance to de¬ 
clare “no trumps” almost amounted to a flaw in her 
nature, and in the opinion of Cheriton, who was her 
partner as a rule, it was a great handicap in life. When 
it was George’s turn to be “dummy” he invariably fell 
asleep, and before the game could proceed he had to be 
roused forcibly. 

Caroline Crewkerne was one of those seasoned war¬ 
riors who are not very particular what time they go to bed. 
Therefore Cheriton counted upon being able that night 
to deal with a certain matter which at the first opportunity 
he was determined to bring to a head. In this he was 
well within his reckoning, for Caroline and he easily sat 
out the others. It was about a quarter to eleven when 
George drank his final whisky and mineral water and in 
a condition of impending somnolence went to his repose. 

“Now, Caroline,” said Cheriton in an extremely busi¬ 
nesslike manner, “let us settle this thing one way or the 
other. We have been playing with it long enough.” 

“To what thing, Cheriton, do you refer?” inquired 
that accomplished dissembler. 

“The future of our delightful Miss Goose. Now, 


246 


ARAMINTA 


Caroline, be practical. Be practical, Caroline, and 1 
foresee no difficulty.” 

Caroline assumed her hanging-judge look. As a 
statesmanlike preliminary she snuffed the air. Cheriton, 
however, was not to be disconcerted by little things like 
these. 

“Now, Caroline,” he said coolly, “no one appreciates 
more than I do the honorable character of your motives. 
Your first wish and your last is to do your duty by your 
charming niece.” 

“Don’t use so many words, Cheriton,” said Caroline 
tartly. “Remember you are not wasting the time of the 
country in the House of Lords. I don’t need any re¬ 
minder from you to do my duty by the girl.” 

“Of course not, Caroline,” said the mellifluous Cher¬ 
iton. “But don’t get your sense of duty unduly inflated. 
I want you to be reasonable. I am prepared to marry 
the girl—she is a sweet, good creature, and on the 
mother’s side she is well bom—but she is in no sense 
a parti; and perhaps I shall be forgiven if I feel that 
Cheriton House has a right to look for one.” 

“Let it,” said Caroline succinctly. 

“Forgive my plainness,” said Cheriton harmoniously, 
“but one feels it to be necessary. As I say, I like the 
girl, and I am prepared to make what in the circumstances 
is a good offer. You are at liberty to reject it, of course; 
but frankly I don’t think you can expect a better.” 

“Don’t be too sure about it, my friend,” said Caroline 
with a hawklike glint from under the bushy eyebrows. 

“Oh, but I am,” said Cheriton confidently. “George 
is no go.” 

“Pray what do you mean?” said Caroline sternly. 

“You can lead a horse to the water, but you can’t 
make him drink.” 

Caroline sat like a sibyl, her hands clenched in her lap. 


PARIS ON MOUNT IDA 


247 

“Would it surprise you to learn that George Betterton 
has made her an offer of marriage?” 

“Yes, it would indeed. Either he was in his cups 
when he made it or he has since repented of his indis¬ 
cretion. George is going to marry Priscilla L’Estrange.” 

“What is your authority for that statement?” Caroline 
made the demand cautiously, for she had a very cool 
gaze fixed upon her. 

“The authority of one’s intuitive perception.” 

“Intuitive fiddlestick!” 

“I know George nearly as well as I know you,” said 
the audacious suitor. “Had George intended to gobble 
at the cherry he would have done so six weeks ago dur¬ 
ing your untimely attack of laryngitis. But George is 
an old hand; and although it takes a seasoned campaigner 
to lead Priscilla L’Estrange to the altar, it is better that 
he should do so, as far as 650 Piccadilly is concerned, 
than that he should marry the penniless daughter of a 
country parson.” 

Until the small hours of the morning this pair of 
worldlings sat discussing the pros and cons of the matter, 
with a tendency to haggle like a couple of Jews at an 
auction. The lion’s share of the blame undoubtedly 
belonged to Caroline Crewkerne. Cheriton, who knew 
her only too well, had far the more delicacy and liberality 
of mind. Moreover, he was quite as shrewd. In spite 
of this old woman’s lofty airs and her contempt for all 
outside the magic circle—and she reserved to herself the 
exclusive right to perform the geometrical feat of draw¬ 
ing it—at heart she was ruthlessly bourgeoise. Indeed, 
she was apt to plume herself upon that quality, which, 
however, she preferred to call by another name. There¬ 
fore was Cheriton the more determined to give her a 
Roland for an Oliver. 

Caroline Crewkerne was more handsomely endowed 


248 


ARAMINTA 


with the goods of this world than in the view of some 
a private citizen has a right to be. She was a rich old 
woman, and like so many rich old women she was grasp¬ 
ing. Cheriton was also rich, but for all his cynical airs, 
he was not such a fool as to make a god of his money. 
However, he was never averse from a battle of wits. If 
it was freely spiced with a frank contempt for the polite 
conventional glosses which he delighted to mock, so much 
the better. 

Cheriton’s first desire, apart from the state of his 
emotions, was to read his old friend a lesson. He knew 
that she had tried her best to overreach him. Not, of 
course, on her own behalf, but for the amateur’s sheer 
love of gaming. He had had the nous to defend himself 
successfully, and now he must see if he could not exact 
from her a penalty. He was quite willing to marry Miss 
Perry, and before so doing was prepared to make her 
a handsome settlement. But at the same time he was 
determined that something substantial should be forth¬ 
coming from the other side. 

That was the rock which sundered them finally at two 
o’clock in the morning. When this condition was first 
laid down Caroline laughed to scorn “the insolent pro¬ 
posal.” In the presence, however, of Cheriton’s ex¬ 
treme imperturbability, which none knew better how to 
assume on occasion, she grew gradually cooler, until as 
the clock struck two she brought herself to say that, 
“without pledging herself to anything, she would go into 
the matter carefully, and, if necessary, would take the 
advice of those who had had more experience in such 
affairs.” 

They parted amicably, and, it is to be feared, with a 
renewed respect for one another. They had fought 
many shrewd battles of one kind or another—over cards, 
over politics, over a flagrant job, over a third person’s 


PARIS ON MOUNT IDA 


249 


reputation, over a sale of shares, in fact over all things 
under the sun, religion excepted. It was their custom to 
expect no quarter and to give none. But at the same time 
they bore no malice. 

As Cheriton took his candle up the ghostly stone- 
flagged staircase, with suits of armor grinning at him 
and mediaeval weapons menacing him from the walls, 
and the young moon peering at him through the oriel 
windows, he knew that his old adversary would make 
a last final and consummate effort to entangle George 
Betterton. And if she succeeded, the United Kingdom 
would not contain a happier old woman than she. 

Outside the first door in the corridor was a pair of 
shoes. They were decidedly large. Outside the next 
door was another pair, far less fashionable in design, 
yet in size very similar. Cheriton stood a moment to 
gaze reflectively from one pair to the other. 

“I shall risk it,” he mused. “George won’t rise now. 
But it is rather a pity both of ’em are so dooced handy 
with a rod and tackle.” 

“Cheriton,” said a grim voice behind him, “do you 
know of what you remind me?” 

“Paris on Mount Ida?” 

“No, v said Caroline. “You remind me of a fox out¬ 
side a poultry yard looking for a hole in the fence.” 

Cheriton shook his head protestingly. 

“A curiously banal figure. Why are you always so 
bourgeoise, Caroline? You have no need to be.” 

Caroline also shook her head. 

“Cheriton,” she said with great resolution, “I don’t 
believe a word you have told me about Priscilla 
L’Estrange.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


JIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM TO HIS 
OTHER FINE QUALITIES 

F OUR hours later saw the inception of an imperial 
August day. The previous night Muffin had 
entered Goose’s chamber by stealth, with bare feet 
and clad only in a white nightgown. She was armed with 
a fat bolster. After a solemn exchange of civilities, of 
which Muffin invariably got the worst, because Goose’s 
aim was wonderfully true and she was not susceptible to 
the most tremendous buffets, they ended as usual by 
sharing the same bed and going to sleep in one another’s 
arms. They did not heed anything else until the light 
of the morning touched their eyelids. As a rule it 
touched Muffin’s first. It then became the duty of that 
active spirit, as soon as she realized that she was awake, 
to hale the still sleeping Goose out of bed. Sometimes, 
when even this herculean labor had been accomplished, 
she had to beat that somnolent creature about the head 
with a pillow before she could be induced to put on her 
stockings. This morning was no exception to the reg¬ 
ular mode of procedure. 

The mists were still gathered about Lake Dwygy, and 
little was to be seen of Gwydr and his brethren, when, 
hand in hand, Goose and Muffin came trampling the dew 
of the early August day. Bareheaded, laughing, gay as 
the birds of the air, they were supremely happy. Each 
had brought up the other from earliest infancy; and 

although exquisitely modest in all that pertained to her- 

250 


JIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM 251 

self, in regard to the fruit of her labors each had rather 
an exaggerated idea. Goose was excessively proud of 
Muffin and Muffin was excessively proud of Goose. 

Tobias was borne in a bag. If strictly forbidden to 
catch rabbits, he was never denied an airing. 

“There goes a squirrel/’ said Muffin. “Look in that 
tree. LTp he goes—but it is not very high. I wonder 
if we could catch him for Aunt Caroline? Hold my 
bread and butter and don’t eat it.” 

Muffin had established herself on the first branch al¬ 
ready, when a voice great alike in scorn and authority 
was heard through the early morning stillness. 

“Come out of that tree, you Ragamuffin. Leave that 
squirrel alone and kindly take the trouble to read the 
notice beneath you. 'The public is allowed in these 
woods on sufferance only by permission of the Right 
Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne. Any person 
guilty of disorderly conduct, or who does willful damage 
to the trees, shrubs and flowers, or who attempts to take 
fish from the lake, or who wanders in search of game, 
will be prosecuted with the utmost rigor of the law.’ 
Come down at once, you Ragamuffin.” 

The voice belonged to Jim Lascelles, of course. Jim 
was looking rather haggard, weary, and disheveled. 
The truth was he had had no sleep during the night. In 
the acute phase of his fortunes he could not rest. A 
sensitive conscience assured him that he was on for¬ 
bidden ground, seeking fruit to which he had no lawful 
claim. He would have been far better in Normandy. 

This morning he was in quite a desperate mood. Work 
had never been farther from his thoughts, and the fact 
that two persons had recently been reputed to have lost 
their lives in an attempted ascent of the Devil’s Footstool 
somehow invested that precipitous chasm with powerful 
attraction. 


2$2 


ARAMINTA 


“Look here, you law-breakers,’’ said he, “let us go and 
have a look at the Devil’s Footstool.’’ 

The Misses Perry needed no second invitation. That 
dark and baleful ascent looming up from the lower end 
of the lake had fascinated them already; indeed, they 
had made one or two tentative attempts upon it. A walk 
of twenty minutes brought them to the foot of the prec¬ 
ipice; and Tobias being left in his bag at the bottom, 
the three of them began to conduct some highly interest¬ 
ing and extremely thrilling investigations. 

From ledge to ledge they went, quickly rising to a 
dizzy and precarious height. On one side of them was 
a torrent, on the other a chasm. But they ascended 
boldly, without a pause, although the foothold was un¬ 
certain and it meant death and destruction to look down. 
And when, in the course of several hours, they returned 
breathless and disheveled to whence they started, having 
made a complete circuit of the Devil’s Footstool, and the 
three of them sat down exulting in weariness by the side 
of Tobias, they really felt that they had achieved some¬ 
thing. The most signal feats of Widdiford and Slocum 
Magna had been eclipsed. 

According to Borrow, Wales is not only a picturesque 
but also a romantic country. Therefore it was not very 
surprising that by half-past nine on this memorable 
August morning Jim Lascelles had become a hero in the 
sight of the world. The Castle breakfast table was 
regaled by a thrilling narrative of adventures by gorge 
and chasm. 

It was not quite clear whether Jim Lascelles had saved 
the life of Muffin or whether Muffin had saved the life 
of Jim Lascelles. But one fact emerged clear, distinct, 
radiant. Jim Lascelles was a hero of the first class. 
His conduct within the precincts of the Devil’s Footstool 
merited a diploma. 


JIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM 253 

Cheriton seconded the praises of his protege. 

"Bred in the fellow,” said he. "His father, you know, 
was Lascelles, V.C.” 

"He looks that kind of young man,” said Miss Burden. 
"His eyes are so open and fearless.” 

As soon as Aunt Caroline was visible, which was not 
until noon, she was put in possession of the facts. 

"Who, pray, is Jim Lascelles?” was her first question; 
and the tone of it was not wholly sympathetic. 

"He used to live at the Red House at Widdiford,” 
chimed both her nieces as one. 

In spite of his heroism, which no amount of cross- 
examination could mitigate, the leading questions Eliz¬ 
abeth was called upon to answer had the effect of render¬ 
ing Aunt Caroline decidedly hostile to Jim Lascelles. 
For the identity of the presumptuous young man was 
only too soon established. He was the person who had 
flung himself out of the house in Hill Street after 
being rebuked for conduct which could not be for¬ 
given. As for the "Jim,” it stuck in Aunt Caroline’s 
throat. 

It was almost the only reminder their august relation 
had had, beyond the scanty nature of their wardrobe and 
a plebeian devotion to bread and jam, that their up¬ 
bringing had been that of Tom, Dick and Harry. 

"Elizabeth,” said Aunt Caroline, "it would be more 
seemly to my mind if you have occasion to mention Mr. 
Lascelles to speak of him as such.” 

Muffin opened solemn and round eyes of wonder upon 
Aunt Caroline. 

"Oh but,” said she, "if I called Jim Mr. Lascelles he 
would pull my hair.” 

"In that case,” said Aunt Caroline, "you would do well 
to terminate the acquaintance.” 

"But he saved me from falling down the precipice,” 


254 


ARAMINTA 


said Muffin, “and I am going to write to dearest papa 
about it.” 

“Caroline,” said Cheriton, “a truce to Whig exclu¬ 
siveness. Behave like a human being and ask the young 
fellow to dinner. Ask his mother also. She is a singu¬ 
larly agreeable woman.” 

Aunt Caroline sat the image of blue-blooded defiance. 
George Betterton, however, who had listened torpidly 
to the account of the episode, was prevailed upon by the 
general enthusiasm for Jim Lascelles and the favor¬ 
able impression he had already formed of that hero’s 
mother to throw the weight of his own influence into 
the scale. 

“Right thing, Caroline, to ask the young fellow to 
dinner in the circumstances. Behaved very well, they 
tell me.” 

“He shall not cross my threshold until he apologizes 
for his behavior to me in Hill Street.” 

“Of course he will apologize,” said Cheriton, “if you 
hold out the olive branch. He can’t apologize unless you 
do.” 

“I am sure, dear Lady Crewkerne,” ventured Miss 
Burden, “Mr. Lascelles is a gentleman and his mother 
is a-” 

Miss Burden was unable to complete her remark. She 
was annihilated by a glance. The elder Miss Perry, 
also, was tactless in the extreme. 

“Jim is just a sweet,” she drawled ridiculously, “and 
dear Mrs. Lascelles is just a sweet too.” 

The glance which had slain Miss Burden was extended 
to Miss Perry. Its effect upon that Featherbrain was nil. 

“Jim is just a sweet,” she proclaimed, “and Muffin 
saved him from falling over the precipice.” 

“I was given to understand,” said Aunt Caroline, “that 
it was the man Lascelles who saved Elizabeth.” 



JIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM 255 

“Yes, it was, Aunt Caroline/’ said Muffin, “but Goose 
is rather a silly.” 

Of course, there could be only one conclusion to the 
whole matter. The massed force of public opinion was 
too strong for the Whig remnant, even in its own strong¬ 
hold. Ungraciously, it must be confessed, Miss Burden 
was commanded to write as follows: “The Countess 
of Crewkerne requests the pleasure of the company of 
Mrs. Lascelles and Mr. James Lascelles at dinner this 
evening at 8.30.” 

“This is one of your white days, Caroline,” said her 
oldest friend. “A singularly gracious act in a life which, 
if I may say so, has not been inconveniently full of them. 
We must mark it with a little white stone.” 

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton. Who has dared to 
remove the ribbon from Ponto’s neck?” 

“He lost it in the water,” said Muffin with all the 
assurance of one in favor at Court, “when he fell in.” 

“When he fell in!” said Aunt Caroline. 

“He went to sleep on the edge of the punt,” Muffin 
explained, “and he toppled over.” 

“I trust,” said the least of Ponto’s admirers, “that the 
obese beast will not gain length of days from his immer¬ 
sion.” 

John, wearing his second-best livery, which he always 
affected in Wales, delivered the mandate at Jim’s lodging 
in Pen-y-Gros hamlet, but that hero and his mother had 
gone down to the lake. Presently they were joined there 
by a cheerful party of four persons. Mr. Lascelles was 
roundly congratulated upon the heroism he had displayed. 

“It has given great pleasure at the Castle,” said 
Cheriton, “where heroism is always, and I think justly, 
admired. My friend Brancaster will exert himself to 
get you a medal. Doubtless your Sovereign will present 
it to you.” 


256 


ARAMINTA 


His Grace, in the manner of a true-blue Briton, went 
the length of shaking the hero warmly by the hand. 

“Great pleasure to me, Mr. Lascelles, to hear of your 
gallant action. Congratulate you heartily. Would have 
given great pleasure to your gallant father.” 

Jim Lascelles laid down his palette with an air of 
truculence. 

“To whom am I indebted for this?” said he. “Which 
of them is it? I suspect that Goose.” 

“They are both of them Geese,” said Jim’s mother. 

“Aunt Caroline thinks it is so splendid of you,” said 
[Muffin, who was seated on the pebbles for the purpose 
of removing her shoes and stockings. “She has invited 
you and dear Mrs. Lascelles to dinner.” 

“You incomparably foolish person,” said Jim. “Fve 
a great mind now not to paint you.” 

“A pair of irresponsible babblers,” said Jim’s mother, 
whose eyes were really very bright indeed. “One is as 
bad as the other. But an old woman feels very proud 
of her son, all the same.” 

Jim stuck his hands in his pockets ruefully. 

“This is the dooce,” said he. “Upon my word, I 
deny the whole thing in the most absolute and uncon¬ 
ditional manner.” 

“I have heard you deny your genius before now,” said 
Mrs. Lascelles, “but, my dear boy, you have never been 
able to convince Lord Cheriton that you are not a genius. 
And I feel sure that all you say to the contrary will fail 
to convince him that you are not a hero.” 

“Absurd!” said Jim hotly. 

“You are in an awkward fix, my dear fellow,” said 
Cheriton. “Everybody who has heard Miss Muffin’s 
thrilling account of her deliverance from an imminent 
and deadly peril within the precincts of the Devil’s Coal 
Box-” 



JIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM 257 

“Footstool,” said the elder Miss Perry. 

“Footstool; I stand corrected,” said Cheriton, adding 
new embellishments to his oratory. “Everybody who 
has heard Miss Muffin’s hair-raising narrative of her 
deliverance from an imminent and deadly peril within 
the precincts of the Devil’s Footstool has conceived a deep 
admiration for its only begetter. From my old and mis¬ 
guided friend Lady Crewkerne to Ponto himself all at 
the Castle are of one mind. I may say the admiration 
of our friend Miss Burden is even tinged with roman¬ 
ticism.” 

“Put on those shoes and stockings, you Ragamuffin,” 
said Jim. “I shall not paint you.” 

“But, Jim,” said that artless person, with eyes of 
extraordinary roundness and candor, “you promised 
to.” 

“Lascelles,” said Cheriton, “I am afraid you must 
accept the inevitable with all the grace at your command. 
No reasonable person can doubt your heroism, and I fear 
it is only critics of the older school who can doubt your 
genius. It is hard to conceive a situation more trying 
to a modest young Englishman, educated at Harrow. 
My dear Mrs. Lascelles, I feel constrained to compliment 
you publicly upon having a son who is the dooce of a 
fine fellow.” 

“I am glad you think so, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim’s 
mother. “I think so myself.” 

Thereupon the green linen frock and the red umbrella 
and the French novel, together with a choice suit of 
tweeds and a superb Panama hat, went along by the lake 
to take a closer view of that formidable chasm, the 
Devil’s Footstool. At the same time George Betterton 
handed Miss Goose aboard the punt. 

Jim Lascelles took up the tools of his trade. 

“Get into the water, you Ragamuffin,” said he. “I’ll 


258 


ARAMINTA 


paint you with pink eyes and green hair. And your 
frock shall not have a single tear in it. It shall be the 
last cry of the fashion.” 

Things went excellently well for a time. It was a 
glorious August day. There was hardly a cloud about 
Gwydr; the sky was of a pure Italian hue; not so much 
as a puff of wind ruffled Lake Dwygy. For a bright and 
diligent hour Jim Lascelles was on the best of terms with 
his canvas. 

“Keep this side, you Ragamuffin,” said he, “and give 
the light of the morning a chance. Keep that cucumber 
basket out of the eye of the sun. And don’t leave the 
water on any pretext. I am not in the least interested 
in toads, newts, lizards, speckled trout, ferns, grass or 
in your general conversation. Soak and tear and soil 
your garments to your heart’s content, but you take those 
Foot Pieces out of the water on pain of appearing at 
Burlington House as an American heiress.” 

“But, Jim-” 

“Silence, you Ragamuffin!” 

“But, Jim, there is dearest Aunt Caroline.” 

It was perfectly true. The mistress of Pen-y-Gros 
Castle was standing five yards from the canvas. She 
was in the full panoply of war. Ponto, her aide-de- 
camp, and Miss Burden, her gentlewoman, were by her 
side. An ebony stick supported her venerable frame; her 
headdress was surmounted by a hat that had been fash¬ 
ionable in 1880; blue glasses covered her grim old eyes; 
and the gentlewoman held an umbrella over the aged form 
to protect it from the fierce rays which according to Bor¬ 
row are sometimes reflected from the slopes of the Welsh 
mountains. 

“I am sorry to curtail a discourse on art,” said the 
mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle, speaking in a tone that 
was beautifully clear, “but you do not seem to be aware 



JIM LASCELLES ADDS HEROISM 259 

that the public is allowed in these grounds on sufferance 
only.” 

Jim took off his hat and bowed in a highly becoming 
if slightly ironical manner. 

“I beg your pardon, Lady Crewkerne,” said he, “but 
I am well aware of that. I have seen the notice warning 
the public at least six times this morning.” 

“I hope you will heed it,” said Lady Crewkerne. 

“It does not forbid the public to paint the scenery, 
I believe,” said Jim coolly. 

Jim had really no right to be so cool in the presence 
of the mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle. All the same, 
it is by no means certain that she did not respect him 
for it. 

“It depends,” said she, “upon what portion of the 
scenery the public wishes to paint. For instance, you 
seem to be painting some person who stands in the water. 
And the public is expressly forbidden to enter the water.” 

“I am very sorry,” said the artist. 

Jim Lascelles, for all his coolness, did not know what 
to say next to keep within the rules of the game. 
However, that section of the public which was standing 
in the water saw fit rather providentially to disobey the 
instructions of the artist. She left the water and came 
resolutely to the aid of Jim Lascelles. Barefooted and 
with her skirt kilted in the true Slocum Magna and 
Widdiford fashion, she accosted the mistress of Pen-y- 
Gros Castle. 

“Dearest Aunt Caroline,” said she, “this is Mr. Jim 
Lascelles who saved me from falling over the precipice 
this morning.” 

“We have met before, I think,” said Aunt Caroline 
grimly. 

“Wasn’t it brave of him?” said Muffin. 

“Mr. Lascelles,” said Aunt Caroline, “you appear to 


26 o 


ARAMINTA 


have acted in a prompt and courageous manner, and I 
congratulate you upon your manly conduct.” 

“Thank you, Lady Crewkerne,” said Jim with excellent 
gravity, “but I am happy to say Miss Perry has greatly 
exaggerated the occurrence.” 

“Oh, no, Jim,” said Miss Perry. “Ask Goose.” 

“There is one thing, Mr. Lascelles,” said the mistress 
of Pen-y-Gros Castle, “that I hope you will take to heart. 
In future the public will be strictly forbidden to climb 
the Devil’s Footstool.” 

“I think that precaution will be in its interests,” said 
Jim. “It is all right going up, but it is a wicked place 
coming down.” 

“Well, Mr. Lascelles,” said Lady Crewkerne, “it is 
satisfactory to learn that this injudicious adventure has 
terminated without loss of life. I shall be glad if you 
will dine at the Castle this evening.” 

Jim Lascelles was sufficiently mollified by the tone to 
accept the invitation. 

“And for my part,” said Jim, after he had done so, 
“I hope, Lady Crewkerne, you will accept an apology 
for my behavior the last time we met. I am afraid I 
was much in the wrong.” 

“Mr. Lascelles,” said Lady Crewkerne, speaking very 
distinctly, “I have since thought that matter over care¬ 
fully, and I have come to the conclusion that there is no 
need for me to revise the judgment I formed at the time. 
You were very much in the wrong. All the same, I have 
pleasure in accepting your apology. Miss Burden, we 
will return. I feel the heat.” 

Things having been placed on this amicable basis, the 
mistress of Pen-y-Gros Castle withdrew with her retinue, 
and Muffin returned to the waters of Lake Dwygy. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


REVEL IS HELD AT PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 

M ODEST revel was held that evening at the 
Castle. Jim’s mother erred so much on the 
side of youth that Jim was inclined to blame 
her for wearing her best gown. She knew perfectly 
well that she always did look young in her best gown, 
almost to the point of impropriety. It had been obtained 
in Paris for one thing, not very recently it is true, for 
Jim was then a gay and careless student at L’Ecole des 
Beaux Arts; but even at that time of day the dress¬ 
makers of Paris were known to possess a lightness of 
touch, a grace and felicity which made for youth. In 
her heart there is reason to believe Mrs. Lascelles con¬ 
sidered her son to be unduly sensitive on the score of her 
appearance. 

Caroline Crewkeme was moderately civil to the paint¬ 
ing man’s mother. But of course she wore a certain 
number of airs, as she invariably did when she had to 
do with persons of her own sex whom she did not con¬ 
sider her equals socially. But there is no need to blame 
her. The chameleon can change its spots, but it is not 
really more respected than the leopard. Caroline Crew- 
kerne was three-and-seventy and habit was strong in her. 
She belonged to a period when airs were more in vogue, 
when human destinies were more unequal, when the 
grades of the social order were more sharply defined. 
If Jim’s mother was a little amused by the “grand 

manner”—and doubtless she was, because she had seen 

261 


262 


ARAMINTA 


something of the world—she did not betray her feelings. 
But Jim, at least, could not help secretly resenting it. 
He blamed himself for being fool enough to come. It 
is to be feared that he hated this old woman and all her 
works. 

A friend of both, of an almost miraculous elegance, 
stood a little apart to witness Caroline Crewkerne offer 
two fingers and his proteges acceptance thereof. Jim 
got through the ordeal without any loss of credit, but 
he was fuming within. However, there were compensa¬ 
tions. George Betterton greeted the young fellow in 
quite a hearty manner; Miss Burden beamed upon him, 
and her appearance was singularly agreeable with “a 
romantic tale on her eyelashes”; while the Miss Perrys, 
of course, were triumphs of female loveliness. The elder 
of the twain, in her “play-acting frock” as Aunt Caroline 
called it, and with her daffodil-colored mane done low in 
her neck in a cunning simulation of the eighteenth cen¬ 
tury, by the hand of the incomparable but exacting Fan- 
chette, was enough to haunt any young painter for many 
days to come. Muffin, too, with her brilliant health and 
her open manners, with a coloring only less wonderful 
than that of her sister, and with a physique pure of line 
and of a spreading, stalwart symmetry, looked every inch 
of her a veritable kinswoman of the goddess. Fanchette 
had been cajoled, perhaps by an inborn love of her art, 
to embellish Muffin’s yellow mane also with the magic 
touch of her great talent, so that it also sat low in her 
neck in a fashion fit to inspire a sonnet. 

Muffin's frock was of pure white—at least, that was 
its hue when first purchased. And although it was coun¬ 
trified and cheap and by no means new, and it was rent 
in three places, and was very short in the sleeves and very 
tight all over, it really suited her to perfection, as some¬ 
how everything did that she wore. 


REVEL AT PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 263 

Lord Cheriton was delighted. 

“Mrs. Lascelles,” said he, at the first opportunity, 
“what do you think of our Miss Gunnings?” 

Jim’s mother sighed a little. 

“Perfectly distracting,” said she. “And yet it only 
seems yesterday that they were long-legged creatures in 
short white socks.” 

George Betterton took in his hostess, Cheriton took in 
the wife of the Vicar, the Vicar took in Mrs. Lascelles, 
Jim took in Miss Burden, and the Miss Perrys took in 
one another. 

Jim Lascelles never remembered a meal that he en¬ 
joyed less, except in years to come—but that is another 
story. For a good deal of the conversation hung round 
one theme, and the theme was heroism. Cheriton claimed 
the respectful indulgence of the table while Muffin fur¬ 
nished her thrilling narrative with all the latest embel¬ 
lishments. She suffered occasional contradiction in the 
course of it from her muddle-headed but tenacious sister 
Goose, but her testimony remained substantially un¬ 
shaken. Mr. James Lascelles was a hero, no doubt about 
that. 

When the dessert stage was reached Cheriton went to 
the length of pledging Jim’s health in felicitous terms 
and in some excellent Madeira. Jim responded with a 
vehement denial of the charges brought against him. 

“Why,” said Cheriton, “he will deny his genius next.” 

“He would,” said the artist’s mother, “but he knows 
it’s no use.” 

After dinner there was music. Caroline Crewkerne 
had an ingrained dislike of music which amounted to 
detestation, but on this occasion it was permitted as a * 
concession to the Church. The Vicar’s wife had a light 
soprano voice and sang very pleasantly, although rather 
nervous at first. The Vicar’s rendering of the “Bay of 


264 


ARAMINTA 


Biscay” was justly admired. Mrs. Lascelles interpreted 
Chopin with such delicacy and refinement that Caroline 
Crewkerne was able to get a short nap. But quite one 
of the most popular achievements of the evening was 
George Betterton’s rendering of what he called his “one 
horse,” a technical term which baffled everybody as to its 
meaning, including Cheriton himself, that veritable ency¬ 
clopaedia of information. 

George Betterton’s “one horse” was “We’ll all go 
a-hunting to-day,” with chorus. This he rendered with 
the most resolute disregard of time and tune and in the 
most dogged and sonorous manner. The Vicar’s wife 
played the accompaniment and finished three bars in front 
of George, and so “won as she pleased” in the judgment 
of Cheriton, who in addition to his other accomplish¬ 
ments was a critic of the art of music. However, Muffin 
and Jim Lascelles were heard to such advantage in the 
chorus that there was no doubt about its success. Upon 
this revelation of their talent they were importuned to 
sing a solo apiece. They contrived to evade this penalty 
on the plea that they had never sung in public before, al¬ 
though Goose declared that Muffin had sung by herself 
twice in Slocum Magna Parish Church with great distinc¬ 
tion. 

“But that wasn’t in public,” said Muffin staunchly. 
“Besides, it was after dearest papa had preached his ser¬ 
mon.” 

“I am afraid, my dear Miss Muffin,” said Cheriton, 
“that the point is a little too subtle for the lay intel¬ 
ligence.” 

Although Muffin and Jim Lascelles were absolved from 
singing solus, they did not get off scot-free. They were 
haled to the piano to render a duet from “H. M. S. 
Pinafore ” and made such a hopeless mess of the business 
that Jim’s mother, who accompanied them, took the ex- 


REVEL AT PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 265 


treme course of closing the piano and retiring in the 
middle of the performance. 

A display of thought-reading ended the proceedings. 
The Vicar’s wife was a clairvoyante, noted for miles 
around. Cheriton also confessed to powers in this oc¬ 
cult science. The Vicar’s wife was only allowed to per¬ 
form one feat, because the Vicar declared that they kept 
her awake at night. The task allotted to her was to take 
the ribbon from Ponto’s neck and tie it round Goose’s 
finger. It was performed with such exemplary ease that 
Muffin felt sure that she could do something. Hers was 
the elementary task of giving Miss Burden a kiss. In¬ 
stead of fulfilling it, she hugged Aunt Caroline. In the 
opinion, however, of those best acquainted with these 
mysteries she was held to be so nearly right that her rep¬ 
utation was at once established. 

“Wonderful, isn’t it?’’ said Goose with dilated eyes. 
“I shall write to dearest papa about it. At the next en¬ 
tertainment in Slocum Magna parish room Muffin will 
have to do something.” 

“I think,” said Mrs. Lascelles, “her powers as a clair¬ 
voyante are superior to her powers as a cantatrice.” 

Muffin was showing a desire to give a further display 
of this newly discovered talent when Aunt Caroline said 
it was half-past ten and that Araminta and Elizabeth 
must retire. 

After saluting Aunt Caroline in a very dutiful manner 
they obeyed the edict with really charming docility. It 
proved a signal for the dispersal of the company. No 
doubt Aunt Caroline intended that it should. 

As soon as the Vicar and his wife and Jim Lascelles. 
and his mother were abroad in the rapt summer stillness, 
and they had begun to pick their way through the crypt¬ 
like darkness of the wood towards Pen-y-Gros hamlet,, 
the inmates of the Castle sat down to the green table.. 


266 


ARAMINTA 


Caroline Crewkeme yawned vigorously. But her op¬ 
ponents did not misinterpret her action, because they 
knew this old woman never sat down to cards without 
proving herself to be more than usually wide-awake. 

“Caroline,” said her oldest friend, “this is one of the 
whitest days in my recollection of you. Without going 
so far as to say that you were genial, you certainly got 
through the evening without treading upon the toes of 
anybody.” 

“The middle classes are so tiresome,” said Caroline, 
cutting for the deal and winning it easily. 

“The middle classes no longer exist as a genus,” said 
Cheriton. “They have assimilated culture so rapidly 
since that fellow Arnold wrote to them upon the subject 
that nowadays they are almost as extinct as the dodo.” 

“Pshaw!” said Caroline, carefully sorting a hand that 
contained four aces and three kings. “It is only skin 
deep. Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton. I declare no 
trumps.” 

“I shall not double,” said Cheriton, who found him¬ 
self in possession of a Yarborough. 

In double quick time he and Miss Burden had suffered 
the indignity of the “grand slam.” 

“Well played, partner,” said George as soon as he woke 
up. 

Few people could play their cards better than Caroline 
Crewkerne when she found herself holding a really good 
hand. And few people found themselves oftener in that 
happy position. This evening she surpassed herself. It 
is true that fortune favored her quite shamelessly. But 
she utilized it to the full; and further, she took advantage 
of the mistakes of her principal adversary. 

•It was seldom that Cheriton was guilty of serious mis¬ 
takes; but on this occasion he certainly held poor cards, 
and to these were added inferior play. He was continu- 


REVEL AT PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 267 

ally forgetting; and twice at a critical moment he re¬ 
voked. Caroline was in high glee. Everything went 
right for her; and the sum she won from Cheriton if 
hardly enough “to endow a hospital for the incurably 
insane” as he declared it to be, certainly put the lucky 
Caroline in high feather. 

Soon after midnight George Betterton retired in earn¬ 
est to his repose, while Miss Burden followed his ex¬ 
ample. And no sooner had the hostess and her old friend 
the field to themselves than they reverted to the topic of 
the previous night. The matter had been left in an in¬ 
teresting stage. Cheriton somehow felt it to be a hope¬ 
ful one. He was sure that he had no serious rival to 
contend against, for George with all his flourishes was 
bound to end by marrying Priscilla. The Georges of the 
world invariably marry the Priscillas. 

“I am willing to tie three thousand a year upon the 
creature.” Cheriton’s tone was not exactly that of an 
auctioneer, although his native wisdom made it necessary 
that when in Rome he should do as the Romans. “Upon 
the condition, Caroline, that you tie an equal sum upon 
her. And there is also a living in my gift worth eleven 
hundred a year which is likely to be vacant.” 

So much for the terms. Caroline Crewkerne pondered 
them well. She was a hard-headed, covetous, hard¬ 
hearted old woman. But if she took a thing in hand she 
carried it through. And she had made up her mind to 
do something for her dead and disgraced sister’s portion¬ 
less girl. Up to a point she was able to plume herself 
on the success of the negotiations. What she did not 
like was to sacrifice some of her own money. It would 
not make the least difference to her. She had more than 
she knew what to do with, but she always found parting 
with her substance irksome. 

“We will say fifteen hundred a year, Cheriton, and 


268 


ARAMINTA 


consider the matter settled/’ said Caroline with the air 
of a money-lender. 

Her old crony frankly enjoyed the situation. He 
knew where the shoe pinched as well as she did. Her 
craft and her avarice reminded him of Balzac’s novels. 

“If you say fifteen hundred, my dear Caroline, I must 
say fifteen hundred too.” 

Caroline pondered again. Cheriton was not a good 
life and the major part of his property was entailed. 

“Three thousand a year in perpetuity?” said Caroline 
harshly. 

“Ye-es,” said Cheriton. “Dooced liberal, I think, for 
a poor parson’s daughter.” 

Caroline bristled. She looked not merely prickly but 
positively venomous. 

“Don’t forget, Cheriton,” she said truculently, “that 
the creature is a Wargave.” 

“An effete strain, there is reason to fear,” said Cheri¬ 
ton with admirable composure. 

The headdress performed surprising feats. My lord 
fell to considerations of how far it might be safe to bait 
the old lioness. No sport is worth much unless there is 
a spice of danger in it. He enjoyed the game none the 
less because he knew its peril. Caroline Crewkerne was 
not a person to be baited with impunity. 

However, in spite of the headdress and the red gleams 
that flashed from the ruthless orbs beneath it, Cheriton 
was able to simulate perfect indifference. The finished 
duplicity may or may not have deceived his old friend. 
But the lines round her mouth grew terribly hard and 
sarcastic. 

“Well, Caroline,” said Cheriton amiably, “let us settle 
the thing one way or the other. It is becoming tedious.” 

Perhaps Caroline thought so too. Or she may have 
thought, all things considered, she had made a reasonably 


REVEL AT PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 269 

good bargain, and that she was not likely to improve 
upon it. For there came a further accession of scorn 
to that grim frontispiece, and for a moment the head¬ 
dress ceased to gyrate. 

“Take the girl and be damned!” said Caroline Crew- 
kerne. 

Cheriton bowed with ironical politeness. He had got 
his way, although there was nothing surprising in that. 
He had had it so often. But he was a little inclined to 
plume himself on his diplomacy. It was an achievement 
to screw a cool three thousand a year out of the most 
avaricious old woman in England. Not that he cared 
greatly about money; but that was no reason why he 
should not toy with those who did care greatly about it 
when he was in need of a little private relaxation. 

Cheriton went to bed and slept soundly. He felt that 
he had obtained a charming countess on liberal terms. 
How the young fellows would envy him! In his mind's 
eye he could see himself walking down the aisle, his young 
goddess on his arm, with all the gravity of a pillar of the 
Government, and looking if anything rather more than 
his years in order to score off the rising generation. 

“He is so old, my dear!” he could hear the buzz of 
tongues. Yes, so old. What had happened to Youth 
and its vaunted pretensions? 

Caroline Crewkerne went to bed also and slept soundly. 
She was well satisfied that she had won at cards, although 
in the matter of her niece she had a very decided feeling 
that the man Cheriton had overreached her. The three 
thousand pounds per annum took a good deal of the gilt 
off the gingerbread. Without that proviso there would 
have been a certain amount of gilt upon it. 

Cheriton, for all his coxcombry, was a pretty consider¬ 
able parti, at whom the arrows of the worldly had been 
aimed for two generations. But in Caroline’s own 


270 


ARAMINTA 


phrase, “Cheriton was no fool.” In spite of his fribbling 
and his vanity, he knew his way about the world. He 
was a cool and sure hand and by no means easy to catch 
napping. Great would be the applause and the merri¬ 
ment when it became bruited abroad that this astute bird 
had actually been limed by the old fowler of Hill Street. 
And after all, nobody need know about that three thou¬ 
sand a year. 

Therefore both parties to the transaction slept the sleep 
of the just and next morning had breakfast in their 
rooms. At half-past five a. m. the unconscious object 
of their negotiations was haled out of bed by her sister 
Muffin. And as the descent to the floor did not arouse 
her, she was beaten about the head with a pillow until 
this object had been attained. They spent incomparable 
hours on the slopes of Gwydr. Jim Lascelles was with 
them. He piloted them among the rocks, and was of 
course prepared to save their lives if necessary. 

These were golden and enchanted hours. For all her 
slowness of speech and action, the Goose Girl had a cer¬ 
tain animation and inward fire when in her true Slocum 
Magna form. Little of it had been seen in Hill Street, 
for amid that rather dismal splendor she was a bird in 
a cage. But now with the freedom of the mountains con¬ 
ferred upon her, with Jim upon one hand and Muffin 
upon the other, existence was a carol. The old glories 
of the Red House at Widdiford were revived. 

These joys continued during a number of brave and 
brilliant days. Cheriton, secure in his prize, was in no 
hurry to impale his butterfly. She was altogether charm¬ 
ing, and he would claim her at his leisure. In the mean¬ 
time let her garner up a store of health and vigor upon 
the mountains in the society of her peers. For, truth to 
tell, the bridegroom elect was apt to get fatigued rather 
easily, and it was really more satisfying to share a red 


REVEL AT PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 271 

umbrella with an intellectual equal and to discuss the 
French writers beside the lake. 

Therefore, with the humane wisdom which distin¬ 
guished him beyond other men, Cheriton was content 
that they should continue each in a private paradise as 
long as it could possibly endure. Things were going 
very well. Why disturb them? The prize was secure. 
Caroline had given her sanction and had written to her 
lawyer upon the subject. There was really no more to 
be said. Why imperil present harmony? A la bonne 
heure! When there were no mountains, no lakes, no 
cloudless August skies, no red umbrellas, no green linen 
frocks, no singularly companionable, cultivated and 
agreeable students of the best French literature, would 
be the time to speak of love. 

Yes, Cheriton was a cool hand. Indeed, Caroline 
Crewkerne was a little inclined to doubt his bona tides. 

“I have not seen the creature in tears yet,” said she 
three days after that memorable night in which the com¬ 
pact was made. 

“Do not let us commit the indiscretion,” said the vic¬ 
torious suitor, “of acting prematurely. I have always 
been a believer in laissez faire. If things are going ob¬ 
viously well, why disturb them? The creature rejoices 
in her youth, her companions and her mountains. I am 
too old for mountains myself. But do not let us rob her 
happiness of a single hour. And, upon my word, 
she seems to grow more glorious every time I look at 
her.” 

“Humph!” said Caroline Crewkerne. 

“Let us do nothing,” said the happy wooer, “to im¬ 
pede this overflow of health and gayety. Upon my 
word, the bracing climate of the Welsh mountains has 
given her a fire it does one good to see.” 

“Cheriton,” was the stern rejoinder, “if I had not the 


272 


ARAMINTA 


best of reasons to know otherwise I should think you 
were a fool.” 

“I am very happy to be one just now,” said he, “in 
the cause of youth.” 

“You were always a coxcomb,” said this unsparing 
critic, “and if one of these days you don’t have to pay 
a price for it I shall be deceived. In my opinion it is 
high time the creature began to shed a few tears.” 

“No, no, Caroline. Let us have the humanity to give 
her the joy of her mountains as long as we can.” 

Caroline shook her worldy-wise head. She grew very 
thoughtful indeed. There was the question of the red 
umbrella. But she did not alarm herself. Cheriton had 
played that game so often. 

The days passed merrily. It was a perfect time, with 
hardly more than a wisp of cloud about the noble head of 
Gwydr. And as the placid waters of Lake Dwygy re¬ 
mained seductively delicious, it is not to be wondered at 
that the picture of the naiad made considerable progress. 

There was no doubt about the wonderful growth of 
power that had come to Jim Lascelles. Having given 
his days to the limning of the Goose Girl and his nights 
to thoughts of her, this expenditure of spirit was now 
manifesting itself in his brush. The naiad bade fair to 
be a brilliantly poetic composition, whose color had the 
harmonious daring that had given Monsieur Gillet a 
European fame. The frank treatment of the naiad’s 
blue eyes and yellow hair, which had made the portrait 
of her sister so wonderful, were now adjusted to the 
majestic scheme of Dwygy’s blue waters and Gwydr’s 
brown slopes crowned with golden haze, with here and 
there a black patch of the woods about Pen-y-Gros. 
Cheriton ministered to the pride of the painter’s mother 
by outspoken but judicious praise of what he held to be 
a signal work of art. 


REVEL AT PEN-Y-GROS CASTLE 273 


The August sunshine, however, cannot last forever. 
And at last, as Muffin’s second triumphant fortnight was 
nearing its close, the clouds gathered about Gwydr and 
his brethren, and the woods of Pen-y-Gros were drenched 
with a sopping mist. This presently turned to a down¬ 
pour of rain which lasted a day and a night. In that 
period something happened. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A THUNDERBOLT 

W HILE the rain was beating with monotonous 
persistency upon the oriel windows of Pen- 
y-Gros Castle Araminta was summoned to 
Aunt Caroline’s boudoir. So little did the artless crea¬ 
ture suspect what was going to happen that she obeyed 
the summons joyfully. She had an idea that she was 
about to be consulted as to whether Muffin would like 
to stay on still longer. But it proved to be something 
else. 

Aunt Caroline was looking very bleak and formid¬ 
able, and Lord Cheriton, who was also present, had never 
seemed so much like a father, so benevolently unbending 
was his manner. 

“Girl,” said Aunt Caroline—she very seldom addressed 
Araminta in any other style than “Girl”—“sit down and 
try not to behave foolishly. I am going to speak about 
your future.” 

Araminta hardly knew that she had such a thing as a 
future. Howbeit, with her usual docility she sat upon 
the chair that Aunt Caroline indicated, and proceeded to 
give her best attention to that stern and difficult old 
woman. 

“I will be brief,” said Aunt Caroline with an extremely 
businesslike air. “My old friend Lord Cheriton has 
been good enough to take an interest in you, and if you 
are a good girl he will marry you. You have no objec¬ 
tion, I presume?” 


274 


A THUNDERBOLT 


275 


It was clear from Aunt Caroline’s tone that she merely 
put the question as a matter of form. But that brisk old 
worldling went a little too quickly for her niece Ara- 
minta, who was really a very slow-witted creature. 
Some little time had to pass before she could grasp the 
full meaning of Aunt Caroline’s announcement. And 
when at last she was able to do so it took away her 
breath. 

Aunt Caroline allowed the creature quite thirty 
seconds in which to reply. No reply being forthcoming 
in that space of time, she proceeded to address her as 
though she were a prisoner at the bar. 

“Well, girl, what have you to say?” 

Araminta had nothing to say apparently. But from 
the roots of her hair downwards a slowly deepening wave 
of scarlet was spreading over the whole surface of her 
frank and vividly colored countenance. 

“Humph!” said Aunt Caroline, “no objection appar¬ 
ently.” She then addressed a third person tersely and 
very much to the point. “Cheriton,” said she, “I con¬ 
gratulate you. You are not everybody’s choice, and I 
must confess to some surprise that no objection has been 
urged. That is the Wargrave in her, I dare say. The 
Wargraves have always known how to accept the in¬ 
evitable. They have often gone to the scaffold rather 
than make a pother.” 

“Family pride again, my dear Caroline,” said Cheriton 
in a voice of honey. “Still, in the circumstances perhaps 
a slight display of it is pardonable. History is not my 
strong point, but I seem to remember that between the 
age of Edward VI, and the age of Victoria the War- 
graves went oftener to the scaffold than anywhere else. 
There is always something rather baffling about the pride 
of old families. If we go back far enough we generally 
find that a lawyer who was too astute to be honest es- 


276 


ARAMINTA 


tablished their fortunes, or a fellow who managed to 
cheat the troops in Flanders of their food and clothing.” 

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton,” was the sharp rejoin¬ 
der. “Remember my niece. I shall expect you to be 
good to her. Fortunately for herself she has no brains, 
but she eats well and sleeps well, she is quite healthy in 
every respect and her disposition is affectionate.” 

“Our dear Miss Goose is perfectly charming,” said 
Cheriton, ogling Miss Perry, who by this time was 
trembling violently, and who sat in solemn scarlet con¬ 
sternation. “I am the proudest man in England.” 

Caroline Crewkerne raised a finger. 

“You have said enough, Cheriton. I have my own 
opinion about the transaction, but I am inclined to think 
the creature might have done worse. You can go now, 
girl. Don’t mention this matter to your sister until you 
have my permission to do so.” 

Miss Perry rose with her usual docility, but in her face 
was an ever-deepening scarlet. She moved slowly and 
heavily to the door of the boudoir without speaking a 
word. Her hand was already upon the door handle 
when she slowly turned about with a face of absolute 
dismay. 

“If you please, Aunt Caroline,” she drawled in her 
most ridiculous manner, “I don’t quite think I can marry 
Lord Cheriton.” 

The old woman sat up in her chair like a Lord Chief 
Justice confronted with a flagrant contempt of court. 

“What do you mean, girl? You don’t quite think you 
can marry Lord Cheriton. Explain your meaning.” 

In the most favorable circumstances it was never easy 
for Miss Perry to explain her meaning. Just now she 
seemed to find considerable difficulty in doing so. Aunt 
Caroline gave her exactly thirty seconds, but Miss Perry 
required far longer than that. 


A THUNDERBOLT 


277 


“Speak, girl. Are you dumb?” 

Miss Perry was not dumb, but words had never been 
so difficult to find. 

“Girl, will you have the goodness to explain why you 
are not quite able to marry Lord Cheriton ?” 

At last Miss Perry was able to furnish the required 
explanation. 

“If you please, Aunt Caroline,” she drawled ridicu¬ 
lously, “I have p-r-r-romised to marry Jim.” 

The old woman’s ebony walking stick fell to the 
ground so peremptorily that Ponto was disturbed in his 
slumbers. 

“Jim!” said Aunt Caroline. “Who, pray, is Jim?” 

“Jim Lascelles,” said Miss Perry. 

“I presume you mean the painting man.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Perry. 

There was a pause, while Cheriton and his old friend 
looked at one another. 

“Hand me my stick.” 

Miss Perry did as she was desired. Her way of obey¬ 
ing the order clearly implied that she expected to receive 
her deserts. 

“Sit down, girl.” 

Miss Perry sat down in a manner which expressed 
a decided relief at such a narrow escape. 

“I could not have believed,” said Aunt Caroline speak¬ 
ing very slowly, “that a Wargrave should be so im¬ 
prudent, so ungrateful, so entirely lacking in self-respect.” 

The indictment was crushing, but a good deal of the 
effect was marred because Cheriton laughed outright in 
the middle. Aunt Caroline, however, presented a 
haughty indifference to the behavior of the husband-elect, 
who, of course, was not himself a Wargrave, and whose 
behavior in this crisis proved the fact clearly. 

“Are you mad, girl? Answer me.” 


278 


ARAMINTA 


“Jim is awfully nice,” drawled Miss Perry. 

The ebony walking stick and the headdress performed 
a concerted piece which seemed to fill even Ponto with 
consternation. 

“The creature must be a natural.” 

Miss Perry grew bolder, however, as the clear con¬ 
viction that she was pledged to Jim Lascelles took a 
firmer hold upon her. 

“We shall not marry just yet, don’t you know,” she 
said with the air of one imparting valuable information. 
“But Jim is going to get rich so that he can buy back the 
Red House at Widdiford, and then we are going to live 
in it, and it will be too sweet.” 

Words having suddenly failed Aunt Caroline, it de¬ 
volved upon Cheriton to say something. 

“Capital!” said he. 

This expression of opinion seemed to help Caroline 
Crewkerne through her crisis. 

“You inconceivably foolish girl,” she said with great 
energy. “Have you no sense of decency?” 

“Muffin has p-r-r-romised to wear her mauve at the 
wedding,” drawled Miss Perry. 

Had not the husband-elect blown his nose very vigor¬ 
ously there is reason to fear that he would have been 
guilty of another serious lapse. 

“Silence, girl!” said Aunt Caroline. “Don’t speak 
another word until you have permission. This comes of 
crossing the breed. Now listen to me. The sooner you 
remove the man Lascelles from that inconceivably 
foolish and demoralized head the better it will be for 
you. Where is your self-respect? Where is your sense 
of decency?” 

“Muffin-” began Miss Perry, but an imperious 

finger stayed her. 

“Don’t speak,” said Aunt Caroline. “Simply listen. 



A THUNDERBOLT 


279 


Dismiss the man Lascelles from your mind, and try to 
remember who you are and where you are and what you 
are saying. My old friend Lord Cheriton desires to 
marry you. Understand that clearly. And he has my 
permission to do so. Understand that clearly also. 
Now you may say something/’ 

Miss Perry turned to Lord Cheriton with a smile of 
really charming friendliness. 

“It is so dear of you,” she said. “If I were not 
going to marry Jim I would marry you. Perhaps 
Muffin-” 

Aunt Caroline affronted the nerves of Ponto by rap¬ 
ping sharply with her stick upon the floor. 

“That is quite enough. Dismiss the man Lascelles 
from your mind once and for all. You are going to 
marry Lord Cheriton. Is that quite clear?” 

Apparently this was not quite so clear to Miss Perry 
as it was to Aunt Caroline. For that Featherbrain 
opened her eyes to their limit, and a look of sheer per¬ 
plexity settled upon her scarlet countenance. 

“But if you don’t mind, dearest Aunt Caroline, I 
p-r-r-romised to marry Jim.” 

Aunt Caroline began to storm. 

“Girl, have you no brains at all! Now listen once 
more. Your father, your brothers and your sisters are 
all as poor as mice, are they not?” 

“Yes, dearest Aunt Caroline,” said Miss Perry quite 
simply. 

“Very good. Now heed this carefully. By the terms 
of your marriage settlement, which I may say has been 
arranged not without difficulty, you will become a coun¬ 
tess with six thousand a year in your own right, with 
a house to live in, and your father or one of your brothers 
will have the reversion of a living worth eleven hundred 
a year which is in Lord Cheriton’s gift. Now have you 



28 o 


ARAMINTA 


the intelligence to comprehend all that has been said to 
you?” 

Apparently Miss Perry had. No doubt her mind was 
a slow-moving affair which often had difficulty in deal¬ 
ing with the most obvious facts; but it was not easy for 
the dullest to misunderstand Aunt Caroline. Very 
slowly this hard lucidity made its impact upon Miss 
Perry; and as surely as it did so, large tears welled into 
eyes that had deepened to the color of violets. In ridi¬ 
culous procession they rolled down the crimson cheeks. 

Neither Caroline Crewkerne nor her old friend were 
easily moved, but there was something in the solemn, 
slow-drawn emotion of Miss Perry that imposed silence 
upon them. The pause which ensued was decidedly un¬ 
comfortable, and by tacit consent it was left to Miss 
Perry herself to terminate it. 

“It is so dear of you both to be so good to me. I 
shall write to dearest papa about you, but I p-r-r-romised 
Jim.” 

Aunt Caroline snorted. 

“And what do you suppose your father will say to 
you, you simpleton, when he learns what you have done ? 
Send the man Lascelles to me. I will deal with him. 
And you had better prepare to marry Lord Cheriton some 
time in October.” 

But Miss Perry sat the picture of woe. It is true 
that in the sight of my lord she was a perfectly enchant¬ 
ing picture; at the same time, it gave him no particular 
pleasure to notice that the absurd creature was shedding 
real ears—tears which in their sincerity were almost 
majestic. 

Araminta was dismissed with strict instructions not to 
mention the subject to any one. 

“What a creature!” said Caroline Crewkerne as soon 
as the door had closed upon her niece. 


A THUNDERBOLT 


281 


She contented herself with that. As for Cheriton, he 
gave an amused shrug and said nothing. For all his 
nonchalance he could not help feeling that he was tempt¬ 
ing Providence. Yet so ingrained was his habit of cynic¬ 
ism that it did not occur to him that he had anything to 
fear from Jim Lascelles. The young man had not one 
shilling to rub against another, he was a sensible fellow, 
and he had been properly brought up. That in such 
circumstances he should take the unpardonable liberty of 
offering to marry Caroline Crewkerne’s niece was simply 
inconceivable. 

It was left to Caroline herself to break a long and 
rather irksome pause. 

“Cheriton,” said she, “we are both of us old enough 
to know better. In the first place you ought not to have 
brought that man to Hill Street, and in the second I 
ought not to have allowed him to enter the house. How¬ 
ever, the mischief is done. We must now take steps to 
repair it.” 

“I shall be interested, my dear Caroline,” was the 
cool rejoinder, “to learn what those steps are.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


JIM LASCELLES WRITES HIS NAME IN THE 

VISITORS’ BOOK 


man?” 


HE husband-elect felt some curiosity as to the 
course to be adopted in this crisis by so hard- 
headed a diplomatist. 

Do you assure me positively that the man is a gentle- 
said Caroline Crewkerne. 

Cheriton ruminated. The term, as he understood it 
and as Caroline interpreted it, was of a somewhat baffling 
complexity. 

“Ye-es,” said he, after an interval of unusually weighty 
reflection, “I should be inclined to say he was by way of 
being one.” 

“As that is your opinion,” said Caroline grimly, “I 
shall speak a few words to him myself upon the subject.” 

Cheriton pondered the matter considerably. 

“My dear Caroline,” he said finally, “it is either the 
worst thing you can do or it is the best.” 

“I agree with you, Cheriton. And it all depends upon 
the man himself. Ask Miss Burden to look him up in 
Walford” 

Waif or d preserved so much discretion upon the subject 
of Jim Lascelles that, although several of his name were 
mentioned, neither he nor his forbears were singled out 
for special notice. The practical Caroline having duly 
recorded the fact that “it was as she feared,” desired to 
know whether Walford had anything to say upon the sub¬ 
ject of his mother. However, as no one at Pen-y-Gros 

282 



JIM LASCELLES WRITES HIS NAME 283 

Castle was acquainted with the maiden name of Jim’s 
mother, Caroline’s curiosity in regard to her also had to 
go unsatisfied. Nevertheless she had fully made up her 
mind to speak to this young man. 

To that end John was dispatched after dinner that eve¬ 
ning to the lodgings of Mr. James Lascelles in Pen-y- 
Gros hamlet with the compliments of his mistress and the 
request that Mr. Lascelles would be kind enough to call 
at the Castle at noon on the morrow. 

Mr. Lascelles sent back word that he would be glad to 
do so. Yet no sooner had the cottage gate clicked be¬ 
hind the Castle emissary than he repented, and it was only 
in deference to the wisdom of his mother that John was 
not recalled. 

Mrs. Lascelles shook her head sagely. 

“When will you learn, my son, that old ladies who live 
in Hill Street, Berkeley Square, must be treated au grand 
serieux, particularly by rising young painters.” 

Jim ruefully supposed that it was so. “And if one 
James Lascelles is ever to find the wherewithal to get back 
the Red House at Widdiford he must learn to keep his 
tongue in his cheek, and also learn how to stroke the fur 
of every old puss that ever stuck a coronet upon the panel 
of her carriage.” 

“For shame, my son!” 

Jim’s power of resentment was unchristian and did him 
no credit, but perhaps he would have shown less promise 
in his art had he been less susceptible to the rubs of the 
world. 

However, as the morning was wet, he did not mind so 
much that he was due at Pen-y-Gros Castle at noon. He 
put on his carefully brushed blue suit and the black silk 
tie that his mother had knitted for him recently with her 
own fair hands, and as the clock struck twelve was seek¬ 
ing admittance at those gloomy portals. In the act of 


284 


ARAMINTA 


doing so he looked in vain for signs of the Goose girl and 
her sister. He could not help asking himself what the 
old heathen wanted him for. Nothing agreeable, he 
would take his oath. Doubtless the Goose had blabbed. 
If so, a warm quarter of an hour was before him. Yet 
he felt that he was not going to mind very much. After 
all, the old beldame was quite likely to get as good as she 
gave. 

He was received by John, who promptly handed him 
over to Marchbanks himself. “Will you please come this 
way, sir?” said that functionary with rather an excess of 
manner. 

Jim followed Marchbanks, after bestowing a some¬ 
what contemptuous glance upon a daub in the hall which 
purported to be the work of one Tintoret. A little far¬ 
ther along, however, was a Cavalier by Vandyck, which 
was more to his taste. He glanced at the furniture also, 
which was very good of its kind. Some chairs of em¬ 
bossed Spanish leather he particularly coveted. At the 
head of a wide, stone-flagged staircase, which he duly 
ascended was a portiere of Gobelin tapestry. Passing 
through this, he was led along a corridor containing good 
pictures and bad, and mediaeval weapons and suits of 
armor, until at last he found himself in an extremely 
cosy room the floor of which was strewn with Turkish 
mats. And there, seated alone and singularly upright in 
a high-backed chair with a hideous little dog sleeping by 
her footstool, was the old woman Jim Lascelles so 
cordially disliked. 

The visitor was a little surprised that the old woman 
deigned to offer, not two fingers only, but the whole of 
her hand. 

“What is in the wind, I wonder?” mused Jim, as he 
accepted the hand with his best bow. 

“It is good of you to come, Mr. Lascelles,” said the old 


JIM LASCELLES WRITES HIS NAME 285 

woman, by no means ungraciously. There never was an 
old woman yet who could not contrive to be agreeable if 
she really made up her mind to be so. And the mistress 
of Pen-y-Gros Castle was no exception to the universal 
rule. “Pray be seated,” said she. 

The old woman was very concise, very businesslike, 
very matter-of-fact. 

“I would like to speak to you upon an important 
matter,” she began. “It has come to my knowledge that 
you have been paying your addresses to my niece, Miss 
Perry.” 

Jim Lascelles was prepared for the speech in its sub¬ 
stance, but its calm, noncommittal air was decidedly 
baffling. He had to confess, however, that the indict¬ 
ment was more or less correct. 

The old woman received the admission not un- 
amiably. 

“I am sorry that you should have done so,” she said. 
“Anything of that kind can hardly fail to be detrimental 
to my niece’s future.” 

Jim, with excellent gravity, was indeed sorry to learn 
that. 

“I will explain. My niece is a penniless girl, and I am 
given to understand, Mr. Lascelles, that you are a 
young professional man with your way to make in the 
world.” 

Jim, who had detachment enough to admire the old 
woman’s statesmanlike plainness, assured her that such 
was the case. 

“That being so,” she proceeded, “a union between you 
is undesirable from my niece’s point of view and also 
from your own.” 

“I hope I am not entirely without prospects,” said Jim, 
who, however, did not mention his prospects with any 
great depth of conviction. 


286 


ARAMINTA 


“They belong to the future,” said the old woman. 
“They will take time to materialize. I prefer to deal with 
the present.” 

“Miss Perry and I had not contemplated marriage just 
at present.” 

“Quite so,” said the aunt of Miss Perry. “Sensible of 
you both not to do so.” 

The old woman’s tone was devoid of irony, but the 
absence of it merely seemed to heighten the amount there 
was in her aspect. Jim thought he had never seen a 
human countenance that he liked so little. 

“What I wish to point out to you,” the old woman 
went on, “is that my niece has lately received an offer of 
marriage from an eligible quarter.” 

From the first Jim had been expecting some such 
thunderbolt. Therefore he was able to maintain his pose 
of scrupulously polite attention. 

“The offer of marriage my niece has received is of such 
a character that those who have her welfare at heart feel 
very strongly that she is bound to entertain it. Not only 
will it give her an assured position socially, but also it will 
establish the fortunes of her family, which, as you are 
doubtless aware, are at a low ebb.” 

Jim’s gentle smile assured the old woman that he was 
not unacquainted with the fortunes of Miss Perry’s 
family. 

“In these circumstances, Mr. Lascelles, I think your 
course is clear.” 

Jim, however, looked perplexed. 

“I wish, Lady Crewkerne,” said he, “that I shared your 
opinion.” 

The old woman showed no acerbity. 

“Have the goodness, Mr. Lascelles, to examine the 
matter in a rational light, from the point of view of a man 
of the world.” 


JIM LASCELLES WRITES HIS NAME 287 

“In other words, Lady Crewkerne, you wish me to give 
her up?” 

“I do,” said the old woman. 

Jim pondered a little. It was not very easy to give up 
the Goose Girl. But this uncompromising old heathen 
in her great headdress, installed in her state chair of em¬ 
bossed Spanish leather, had shown him his duty a dead 
sure thing. And she had used the fewest words possible 
in so doing. 

“To my mind, Mr. Lascelles, your duty is perfectly 
clear,” said she after a full minute of silence had passed. 

Very dubiously, and with a sharp intake of breath, Jim 
agreed. And then after a moment's pause, in the vain 
hope of finding a way of circumventing his obvious duty, 
he rose from his chair. 

“Lady Crewkerne,” he said, “to-morrow we leave the 
neighborhood, my mother and I. We thank you very 
much for the hospitality you have shown us.” 

Thereupon Jim made his best bow. With the air of 
one who has performed a dignified action he prepared to 
take his leave. 

“Thank you, Mr. Lascelles,” said the old woman, upon 
a note of veiled sarcasm, which yet was not so unpleasant 
as it might have been. “I am obliged to you. I shall be 
glad if you will write your name in the visitors’ book.” 

In this fashion the audience terminated, with a display 
of dignity upon both sides. Considering all the circum¬ 
stances, it was proper and natural that this should be the 
case. And in the hall Mr. Lascelles wrote his name in 
the visitors’ book immediately below that of his Grace the 
Duke of Brancaster, who had left Pen-y-Gros Castle the 
previous week. 


CHAPTER XXX 


GOOD-BY 



EFORE breakfast next morning Jim Lascelles said 
good-by to the Goose Girl on the slopes of Gwydr. 
For that slow-witted but tenaciously affectionate 
creature it was an overwhelming day. Muffin was leav¬ 
ing also by the eleven o’clock train. 

The eyes of Miss Perry were heavy with tears she had 
wept and with the tears she had still to weep. Prior to 
this tragic morning Jim had not spoken to her upon the 
subject of Lord Cheriton, but the ruthless Aunt Caroline 
had lost no time in imbuing her with a sense of duty. 
All too soon the golden age had ended. Somehow she 
felt that she would never climb the mountains again. 

In obedience to Aunt Caroline’s strict command she 
had told Muffin nothing of the tragedy. That practical- 
minded person and uncommonly sound sleeper had been 
awakened six times during the night by Goose’s low sobs 
and convulsive caresses. On each occasion she had given 
Goose a hug in return, had told her not to be a silly, and 
had immediately gone to sleep again. 

When daylight came and Muffin really awoke to find 
her sister in a state of great distress, her acute intelligence 
at once began to seek a remedy. 

“I will stay with Aunt Caroline,” said Muffin, “if she 
will have me and you shall go back, Goose darling, to Slo¬ 
cum Magna to dearest papa. But if you do, you must 
promise to feed my rabbits, because Milly always forgets 
them. Now dry your eyes and don’t be a silly.” 

Goose faithfully promised to feed the rabbits if she 

288 



GOOD-BY 


289 


went back to Slocum Magna, but she was by no means 
sure that Aunt Caroline would let her go. 

Up till the departure of the eleven o’clock train Ara- 
minta put forth heroic efforts to be brave. She did not 
wholly succeed; but when a little before seven a. m. she 
beheld Jim Lascelles striding towards them across the 
mountain side, in response to his cheery “Hallo, you 
there!’’ she contrived to greet him in something of the 
true Widdiford manner. 

In the opinion of Jim Lascelles the first thing neces¬ 
sary was to get rid of Muffin for an hour. And this was 
quite easy, for the devotion of that practical mind to the 
fauna and flora of the neighborhood often caused her to 
spend an hour in the investigation of a dozen square yards 
of the Welsh principality. 

Upon this fateful morning less than a third of Gwydr 
had been climbed when a profusion of rare ferns and 
mosses claimed Muffin’s attention. Jim walked briskly 
forward, one hand firmly holding the docile sleeve of the 
Goose Girl. 

“Come on,” he said, with an affectation of gayety that 
did him credit. “Let us leave that Ragamuffin. In she 
goes, right over her ankles into the mud. Torn a great 
piece out of her skirt on a brier. By the way, Goose 
Girl, has Aunt Caroline said anything to you upon the 
subject of Lord Cheriton?” 

Mournfully enough the Goose Girl confessed that Aunt 
Caroline had. 

“Well, you must buck up, you know,” said Jim cheerily. 
“You are going to be a countess and the family of Wake¬ 
field—Slocum Magna, I mean—will come again into its 
own.” 

Miss Perry’s only reply was to break forth into a suc¬ 
cession of slow-drawn sobs, which were so heavy and 
majestic that Jim declared they shook the mountain. 


290 


ARAMINTA 


“Here is a dry place,” said he. “Let us sit down be¬ 
fore you do some damage to the scenery.” 

They sat down together upon Gwydr, with the chill 
mists enfolding them. For twenty minutes the Goose 
Girl said nothing, but merely sobbed to herself slowly and 
softly with the daffodil-colored mane pressed against 
Jim's shoulder. Such depth and power had the Goose 
Girl’s emotion that it really seemed to Jim Lascelles that, 
had her heart not been a particularly robust organ, it must 
have been broken in pieces. 

“I am afraid,” said Jim miserably, “I have been rather 
a cad for leading you on, you great silly Goose.” 

Miss Perry flung her arms about Jim’s neck with such 
force and suddenness that she nearly toppled him back¬ 
wards over a precipice. 

“Jim,” she sobbed, “you m-must m-marry M-Muffln.” 

As Jim was in the toils of a hug that almost forbade 
him to breathe, he was not able to answer at once. 

“That Ragamuffin!” said Jim, as soon as he was able to 
do so. 

“She is t-too s-sweet,” sobbed Miss Perry. 

“You Goose!” said Jim. “Give me a kiss, you great 
Goose.” 

Miss Perry proceeded to do so. 

“That Ragamuffin doesn’t know about it, does she?” 

“Oh no. Aunt Caroline said she was not to.” 

“That is a wise old woman. Quite right for the Rag¬ 
amuffin not to know about it. She is too young. Now 
dry those Eye Pieces and don’t be a gaby. Old man 
Cheriton is a very nice, kind, fatherly old gentleman.” 

“He is a dear,” said Miss Perry with a loyalty that 
Jim was forced to admire. 

“You are really a very lucky Goose, you know,” said 
Jim. “You will have a nice kind old gentleman to take 
you to parties and to the circus. He will give Gunter a 


GOOD-BY 


291 


contract for the large size, see if he doesn’t. And Dickie 
will get a living, see if he doesn’t; and Charley will go to 
Sandhurst. As for Papa, you will be able to buy him the 
Oxford Dictionary ; Polly is as good as married to her 
parson; Milly can go to a boarding school at Brighton; I 
am absolutely confident that the Ragamuffin will have a 
new mauve frock; and as for Tobias, he will be able to 
live in Grosvenor Square.” 

“Do you think so, Jim?” said Miss Perry tearfully. 

Jim Lascelles quite covered himself with honor that un¬ 
happy morning upon Gwydr. For without a doubt Aunt 
Caroline had knocked the bottom out of his little world. 
He had been tumbled out of his fool’s paradise in such a 
ruthless fashion that he really didn’t know how he was 
going to get over the fall. 

From his earliest youth he had had an affection for the 
Goose Girl. Fie had bled for her, for one thing. And 
now that she had blossomed out into a gorgeous being 
who had conquered the town, she had become so much a 
part of his fortunes that it was impossible to dissociate 
them from her. The portrait he had painted of her had 
absorbed all he had to give. But for her it could never 
have been wrought. Such a work was composed of 
living tissue. It was almost more than flesh and blood 
could bear to be told in a few blunt words that this source 
of inspiration must be a fountain sealed from that time 
on. 

However, he went through with his ordeal as well as in 
him lay. Great had been his folly that he had ever come 
to inhabit his paradise at all. And now that he was 
tumbled out of it forever, it behooved him to see that he 
made no cry over his bruises, if only because that other 
foolish simpleton was striving not to cry over hers. 

The departure from the railway station at Dwygyfy 
was a seemly affair. The Castle omnibus, a reputed con- 


292 


ARAMINTA 


temporary of the Ark, bore Muffin in state. She was ac¬ 
companied, of course, by Polly’s dress basket, marked 
“M. P.” in white letters on a black ground; and was also 
accompanied by Miss Burden, Ponto, Lord Cheriton and 
the dismal Goose. On the way through Pen-y-Gros 
village they picked up Jim and his mother and their 
belongings, including the half-finished picture of the 
Naiad. 

Muffin herself was in high feather. For the first time 
in her life she found herself a person of means and posi¬ 
tion. Aunt Caroline had marked her esteem for her 
character and conduct by presenting her with a bank note 
for ten pounds. Muffin, with that practical sagacity 
which always distinguished her intercourse with the 
world, was at first uncertain in what manner to convey 
this royal gift to Slocum Magna. Eventually she 
secreted it in her right stocking. 

Upon the down platform at Dwygyfy Junction the 
Goose Girl showed great fortitude. Jim wished at first 
that she had not come. But she contrived to restrain her 
feelings nobly, as of course was only to be expected of one 
of a clan which had gone so often to the scaffold. In 
consequence, they were able to snatch a few brief, inex¬ 
pressibly sad, yet tender moments before the train arrived 
from Talyfaln. 

“You are a good and brave Goose,” whispered Jim, 
“And a lucky Goose too. But you must come one day to 
see us humble suburbans, and we will lay down a red 
carpet for you, and in every way we will do our best. 
Because, you know, you are going to be very grand in¬ 
deed.” 

“I don’t want to be grand, J-Jim.” The tears of the 
Goose Girl were still imminent. 

“Now here’s a great idea. Persuade my lord to buy 
the Red House at Widdiford and then ask me and my old 


GOOD-BY 


293 


mother to come and stay with you. We will give them 
such a roasting at the Vicarage—especially that girl Polly 
—as they have not had for many moons.” 

Somehow this bold scheme appeared to infuse a ray of 
hope in the forlorn heart of Miss Perry. 

“Jim,” said she, and her voice had a thrill in it, “per¬ 
haps Lord Cheriton might buy the Red House for you and 
Muffin.” 

“Or perhaps pigs might fly,” said Jim. 

“You will marry Muffin, won’t you? P-r-romise me, 
Jim, that you will.” 

“What’s the good, you Goose, of my p-r-romising to 
marry the Ragamuffin? How do you suppose a poor 
painting chap who lives at Laxton with his old mother can 
marry into a family with a real live countess in it? What 
do you suppose that girl Polly would have to say upon 
the subject?” 

This great idea, however, had insinuated itself into the 
Goose Girl’s slow-moving and tenacious mind, and of 
course it stuck there. 

“Jim,” said she, just as the signal fell for the train from 
Talyfaln, and the solemn conviction of her tone was such 
that Jim was forced to laugh in spite of his misery, “Jim,” 
said she, “I am sure Muffin would love to marry you. 
And it would be too nice. I shall write to dearest papa 
about it.” 

Before Jim could make a fitting reply the train from 
Talyfaln came snorting and rattling in with quite a dis¬ 
play of unnecessary violence. Jim had to look after the 
luggage, while Lord Cheriton with accustomed gallantry 
handed Jim’s mother, her red umbrella and her French 
novel into a third-class compartment. 

Muffin personally supervised the entrance of Polly’s 
dress basket into the luggage van and gave the porter 
two-pence out of her chain purse. 


2 94 


ARAMINTA 


“Get in, you Ragamuffin,” said Jim sternly, “unless 
you want to be left behind.” 

Muffin gave her sister, who was forlornly witnessing 
these operations, a final hug and received one in return. 
She was then handed with considerable ceremony into 
Mrs. Lascelles’ compartment. 

Jim tipped the porter and then had a craving to kiss the 
Goose Girl, but did not quite know how to do so as the 
down platform at Dwygfy Junction is a decidedly public 
place. Therefore he had to be content with squeezing her 
hand. 

“Now remember,” were his last whispered words, “you 
are a very lucky Goose Girl indeed. And your papa and 
Polly and Milly and all of them are going to be awfully 
proud of you. And if you forget The Acacias at Laxton 
my old mother will never forgive you.” 

As Jim came aboard his patron shook him warmly by 
the hand. 

“Good-by, Lascelles,” said he. “I hope there will be 
some entertaining at Cheriton House before long. May 
we count on Mrs. Lascelles and yourself to stand by us? 
And when the masterpiece is quite finished please let me 
know, and I will tell you what to do with it.” 

The guard slammed the door and blew his whistle. As 
the train moved off the window of the third-class com¬ 
partment was occupied by an expansive vision in mauve, 
waving affectionate farewells to a group of three persons 
and a small dog assembled on the platform. They all 
stood watching it, until the sunlight was cheated suddenly 
of the daffodil-colored mane gleaming from under the 
Slocum Magna cucumber basket by the jaws of the tunnel 
immediately outside Dwygyfy Station, which is two miles 
and a quarter in length. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


DISINTEGRATION 

F ROM the fell hour the train steamed away from 
Dwygyfy Junction there was no more decent 
weather. Day after day it thundered and 
lightened, it hailed and it blew, day after day it poured in 
torrents. For a whole week Cheriton endured this dis¬ 
temper of the Welsh climate. His servant then packed 
his things, and the pair of them were spirited away upon 
an extremely inclement morning by the eleven o’clock 
train. Scotland was their destination. In that land of 
cakes and heather were some old friends who set apart 
September for the shooting of divers small birds. 

Of course, before Cheriton went up to Scotland he 
freely discussed his proposed matrimonial adventure with 
the sagacious Caroline. She even went so far as to affirm 
that the man Lascelles had behaved like a gentleman, al¬ 
though it was only in very rare instances that she gave a 
testimonial of that kind. 

As became a man of leisure, Cheriton was in no in¬ 
decent haste to marry Miss Perry. In fact, he did not 
propose to marry her until the spring. Caroline was in¬ 
clined to demur. She was not one to let the grass grow 
under her feet. Besides, Cheriton might change his 
mind, or a hundred things might happen. Stability, at 
any rate, was not his forte. 

“No, my dear Caroline,” said a sagacity nowise less 
than her own, “to my mind the creature is still a little un¬ 
developed. A few months more of the great world so 

295 


296 


ARAMINTA 


that she may acquire a deeper sense of responsibility will 
do her no harm. Besides, spring, the vernal season, is 
Nature’s own appointed wedding-day.” 

Caroline, of course, did not concur. It only remained 
for her, however, to acquiesce ungraciously. Yet there 
was one thing she could do, and this she did. She sent 
for her lawyer to have the terms of the nuptial contract 
set out in form. Her old and trusted legal adviser, Mr. 
Giles Grabham, of Messrs. Pettigrew, Grabham, Grab- 
ham and Horrobin, of Old Squire, Lincoln’s Inn, spent 
two nights and a day at Pen-y-Gros Castle and placed 
the matter on a comprehensive basis. Cheriton appeared 
to derive a great deal of amusement from the whole 
proceeding. However, he was prevailed upon to affix 
what Mr. Grabham called “a provisional signature to the 
memorandum.” 

Copies were engrossed of what Mr. Grabham called 
the instrument by the clerical staff to Messrs. Pettigrew, 
Grabham, Grabham and Horrobin, one of which was duly 
forwarded to Lord Cheriton at Pen-y-Gros Castle, North 
Wales, two days after his lordship’s departure from the 
principality. It was accompanied by another one ad¬ 
dressed to the Countess of Crewkerne. 

Upon the arrival of these documents Miss Perry was 
commanded by Aunt Caroline to write to her papa to an¬ 
nounce the signal honor that had been done her, and to 
inclose a copy of the deed of settlement for his sanction 
and signature. In obedience to the behest, with infinite 
difficulty and many tears, Miss Perry composed the fol¬ 
lowing :— 

Papa Dearest,—Aunt Caroline desires me to inform 
you that her old friend the Earl of Cheriton does me the 
honor of wishing to marry me—that is, Papa Dearest, if 
you have no objection. Aunt Caroline desires me to say 


DISINTEGRATION 


297 


that in her judgment there can be no possible objection to 
Lord Cheriton doing so, as he is a man of considerable 
wealth, his life has been worthy, and she has known him 
herself personally for nearly fifty years. Aunt Caroline 
desires me to inclose this copy of the deed of settlement, 
which she hopes you will approve and return to her with 
your signature. With fondest love, Papa Dearest, and 
twelve kisses, which I inclose XXXXXXXXXXXX. 
Believe me to remain your most Dutiful and Affectionate 
Daughter, 

A RAM I NT A. 

PS.—Have you any objection to Muffin marrying Jim 
Lascelles, who used to live at the Red House at Widdi - 
ford? 

The more formal part of the letter had been written to 
Aunt Caroline’s dictation. She inspected the finished 
performance grimly. The writing was large and round 
and as transparently simple as Miss Perry’s own coun¬ 
tenance, and it was blotted freely with tears. In its way 
it was a human document, and as such Aunt Caroline de¬ 
cided that it should be sent. Miss Perry was not the first 
Wargrave who had been consigned to the scaffold, and 
doubtless she would not be the last. 

A week passed before a reply came to Pen-y-Gros 
Castle, and even then it was unaccompanied by the copy of 
the deed. The letter of the Reverend Aloysius Perry was 
as follows:— 

My dear Daughter,—Your letter came to me as a great 
surprise. Firstly, I should like to express to your Aunt 
Caroline the deep sense of obligation we are all laid under 
in regard to her, not only in the matter of her very great 


298 ARAMINTA 

kindness to you personally, but also for the great kind¬ 
ness and consideration extended to Elizabeth during her 
month's sojourn at Pen-y-Gros Castle. Elizabeth can¬ 
not find enough to say in her praise. 

Now in regard to yourself, my dear Araminta, while 
J recognize to the full the dazzling nature of your pros¬ 
pects, and I do not know how to thank your Aunt Caroline 
for her princely suggestion, 1 want you to believe, and I 
zvant her to believe also, that I have no other thought and 
no other desire than whatever course you take shall lead 
to your ultimate and permanent happiness. That above 
everything is what I desire. I have refrained from at¬ 
taching my signature to the Deed which your Aunt has 
been so kind as to send to me, for while I am sensible of 
her generosity and her munificence, I shall like to have 
your own assurance, my dear Daughter, that you are con¬ 
sulting your oven highest welfare and happiness irrespec¬ 
tive of that of any one else. I trust your Aunt zvill not 
consider me lacking in gratitude or in common sense. 
Please write to me again upon the subject, and believe me 
to remain, your affectionate father, 

Aloysius Perry. 

Aunt Caroline snorted a good deal when she read this 
letter. She declared it was so like a parson to say a great 
deal more than he need in order to express a great deal 
less than he ought. However, she was quite ruth¬ 
less upon the subject. Araminta was ordered to al¬ 
lay the scruples of her father; and this the unhappy 
Goose Girl did with many private tears, to her aunt’s 
dictation. 

In due course the document was returned with her 
father’s signature. Then she felt that indeed her doom 
was sealed. She was a most docile and duteous creature, 
and even Aunt Caroline admitted it; but her appetite de- 


DISINTEGRATION 


299 


dined, her laugh lost its gayety, her youth its irresponsible 
charm. Life suddenly became a dreary routine. 

Jim had his bad time too. He returned to The Acacias 
with his mother fully determined to maintain the tripartite 
role of a Lascelles, a hero, and a gentleman. He de¬ 
termined to undertake the superhuman task of behaving 
as though the Goose Girl had no place in his life whatever. 

Alas! for the vanity of human resolves. The first 
thing he did upon his return home was to take the studio 
key off the sitting-room chimney piece in order to bestow 
a few final touches upon a work which by now was hardly 
in need of them. He deluded himself with the idea that 
he was about to prove to himself how strong he was, and 
that by the mere exercise of the will an unforgettable 
image might be cut away from the living tissue of his 
thoughts. 

Alas! it could not be done. Jim Lascelles failed dis¬ 
mally to assert the mind’s dominion. A-strange excite¬ 
ment came upon him, and for several days he worked in 
quite a frenzy of enthusiasm, modifying this, painting 
out that, heightening and enhancing the other. It was 
solace of a dangerous kind. He performed surprising 
feats, it is true; his color grew more and more audacious, 
only to be harmonized marvelously, but he could not sleep 
at night. He came down to breakfast haggard and wild¬ 
eyed and looking rather more unstrung than when, in the 
small hours of the morning, he had gone to bed. 

He had determined to withhold from his mother the 
true state of the case. But he had hopelessly underrated 
the flair of the genus. Very soon she had the truth out 
of him; and, without letting Jim see her concern, she 
grew alarmed. Yet she was not in the least surprised. 
From the first she had foreseen that this was a turn the 
thing was almost bound to take. Had it not been Lord 
Cheriton, it must have been another. For the Goose, not- 


300 


ARAMINTA 


withstanding her limited capacity, was an absurdly regal 
creature, one of those oddly-compounded, solemn, un¬ 
aspiring works designed by Nature for a gorgeous setting, 
who by a kind of sovereign right command a splendid 
destiny. 

Jim’s mother blamed herself, as mothers are apt to do, 
although she really had no part in Jim’s tragedy. She 
had merely lent a kind of whimsical sanction to a young 
man’s dream in order primarily to give him a zest in his 
work. The consequences were indeed melancholy, but in 
any case the responsibility for laying the mine was not 
hers, any more than it was Cheriton’s for applying the 
match. 

“Had it not been one, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Lascelles 
philosophically, “it would have been the other. Had I 
ventured to prophesy I should have said that Destiny 
would have insisted on making her a duchess. Not that 
that matters. Lord Cheriton will certainly be very good 
to her, although there is little consolation in that.” 

Precious little consolation in Jim’s opinion. By the 
time October came he was but a shadow of himself, and 
the masterpiece was finally complete. His mother was 
alarmed for him then. She suggested a voyage to Spain 
and a visit to the Prado, so that he might pay homage at 
the shrine of the great Velasquez. The suggestion was 
sound, but unhappily it did not come within the range of 
practical politics. They had no money. Mrs. Lascelles 
was overdrawn at the bank and Jim was in debt. 

“Tell Lord Cheriton his picture is complete, and dun 
him for the price of it.” 

“No, my dear,” said Jim with a dour shake of the head, 
“we must look to that little effort to keep a roof over our 
heads during the winter.” 

His mother showed a most resolute optimism. 

“Lay out every penny of the money on a visit to Spain. 


DISINTEGRATION 


301 


my son. Velasquez will inspire you. You will return 
with a cubit added to your stature; you will finish the 
Naiad triumphantly, and once you have done that you 
will have convinced the world you can paint.” 

“And in the meantime, my dear, what about the rint?” 

“Oh, that,” said his mother airily—“that can take care 
of itself. Besides, I dreamed last night that the pub¬ 
lishers had accepted The Fair Immortal 

“Not quite the same thing, my dear, as receiving a 
check for it,” said Jim gloomily. 

It would seem, however, that Providence was keeping 
an eye on The Acacias. For the very next morning 
brought a solution of the difficulty. The marquis wrote 
from Yorkshire to suggest that during the following 
week, if convenient to himself, Mr. Lascelles should come 
to Barne Moor, as previously arranged, to paint the fair 
Priscilla. 

It appeared that in the stress of circumstance both Jim 
and his mother had forgotten the Yorkshire marquis and 
the fair Priscilla. 

“And it means a cool five hundred, too,” said Jim, with 
a little pardonable uplift. “The terms are arranged al¬ 
ready, thanks to that old sportsman who is really the 
oddest mixture of a human being I have ever met.” 

And then Jim gave a groan, for he remembered that it 
was upon the strength of this important commission he 
had made up his mind to take the plunge with the Goose 
Girl. The next moment he was cursing himself for being 
so flabby. 

“You will never be the least use in this world, James 
Lascelles, my son,” was the burden of his reflections, “if 
you can’t take a facer or two. Every time Fate knocks 
you down you have to come up smiling, or you will 
certainly never be a Velasquez.” 

Mrs. Lascelles was overjoyed by the providential letter 


302 


ARAMINTA 


from Yorkshire. She blessed the marquis and all his 
acres. She insisted that Jim should write by the next 
post to announce his intention of coming to Barne Moor 
on the following Monday. And, in order that there 
should be no possible doubt about the matter, she put on 
her hat, although it was raining hard, and sallied forth to 
the stationer’s shop at the corner of Chestnut Road and 
invested one of her few remaining sixpences in a 
Bradshaw's Guide. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


BARNE MOOR 

A BOUT tea-time on the Monday following Jim 
Lascelles found himself at Barne Moor. The 
house was a bleak, upstanding place in the north 
of Yorkshire. It was on the edge of the moors, and 
although its size was impressive, architecturally it was 
hideous. 

All the way up from London Jim had been very 
unhappy. The change of scene, however, raised his 
spirits a little. Definite employment and a prospect of 
five hundred pounds were also stimulating. As soon as 
he set foot in the house there was a great surprise in store. 

Almost the first person he saw was the Goose Girl. 
She had been out with the guns, and was now consuming 
tea and hot buttered cakes. It was nearly six weeks 
since they had parted in Wales. In that time each had 
changed. But with his artist’s eye Jim could not help 
noticing that she was still the elemental creature of the 
Devonshire lanes. Her candor and simplicity were 
hardly less than they had always been, but somewhere 
deep down was a kind of reserved inclosure which only 
those who held her secret would ever be able to discover. 

Jim Lascelles may have been glad to perceive that. 
She was true blue. There was nothing in her words and 
very little in the manner of her greeting to suggest that 
one so primitive as herself had these hidden depths. She 
was just as she always had been, yet at her first words of 
greeting Jim knew she was much more. 

303 


304 


ARAMINTA 


“Why, it’s Jim!” she exclaimed in just the old way; 
and putting her cake in her saucer, she said, “I can’t 
shake hands with you, Jim, because my fingers are all 
over butter.” 

Jim hardly knew whether to rejoice at her presence or 
to be dismayed. 

“Why, Goose Girl, whoever could have thought of 
seeing you here!” 

“Aunt Caroline is here. And Miss Burden. And 
Lord Cheriton too.” 

“How odd that we should meet again like this!” 

Yet it was scarcely so odd as Jim thought it was. 
Aunt Caroline, in spite of her years and her increasing 
difficult temper, had still certain houses open to her, and 
of these Barne Moor was one. Her store of energy was 
by no means exhausted; she liked still to keep in the 
world, to know what was doing; and she liked her rubber. 
An old habitue of Barne Moor, as soon as Wales began to 
bore her she resolutely turned her face in the direction of 
that caravanserai, because she knew that it was about to 
hold a choice collection of her friends and her enemies, 
and would be far more diverting than Pen-y-Gros or 
London itself in the absence of Parliament. 

At Barne Moor, of course, Jim was a nobody. His 
hostess, like Caroline Crewkerne herself, was of the strain 
of a former Whig oligarchy, as were so many to be found 
under that ample roof. She was not so much exclusive 
as quite indifferent to those outside the magic circle. She 
was a ponderous, neutral kind of woman, with very def¬ 
inite views about religion and a bit of a bully an fond. 
From the first Jim Lascelles did not find her at all easy 
to get on with. Perhaps he did not try to get on with 
her particularly. 

However, during the time Jim spent at Barne Moor 
things did not go amiss. The Goose Girl was still the 


BARNE MOOR 


305 


child of Nature she had always been. The old woman of 
Hill Street was reasonably civil; quite as civil, in point of 
fact, as Jim expected her to be. Miss Burden in her 
charmingly delicate way showed that she understood the 
tragedy. As for Cheriton, who was an old friend of the 
house, and for some reason high in the esteem of all, he 
extended the same genial kindness to his protege that he 
had always done. 

Among the score or so people gathered under Barne 
Moor’s hospitable roof Jim’s only other acquaintance was 
George Betterton. No announcement had yet been made, 
but it was common knowledge that “an arrangement” was 
likely to be forthcoming with a daughter of the house. 

Jim Lascelles opined that “the old sportsman” knew his 
own business best, but he rather hoped “it wouldn’t come 
off.” In Jim’s opinion his Grace was a genuine fellow, 
while personally the young man had little admiration for 
the fair Priscilla. For one thing, he had to paint her to 
order; and that, of course, did not tell in her favor with 
the temperament of genius. 

She had not the least sense of pose. She was just a 
wooden sort of Englishwoman, as neutral as her mother, 
who clipped her “g’s” and powdered her nose, with dull 
red hair and pale green eyes, who took very little interest 
in anything or anybody. But she shot well and rode well 
and went to Church twice every Sunday. 

She sat half a dozen times, and the rising artist did 
what he could with her. Jim’s special talent lay in his 
use of color and his sense of values. He took the dark 
oak of the gloomy old library for a background, and he 
painted Priscilla’s hair a warm and glowing Titian red, 
with a striking pallor for the face, and for the eyes a shade 
of blue which was extremely daring but successful. The 
portrait in its distinction and its style was absurdly unlike 
Priscilla herself; yet somehow it resembled her sufficiently 


ARAMINTA 


3°6 

to pass muster with those who cared more for that young 
woman than they did for her counterfeit presentment. 

About the fifth day of Jim’s stay Cheriton announced 
that the picture of Priscilla was going to turn out very 
fine. He publicly exhorted his friend Kendal to send it 
to the next Royal Academy exhibition, and complimented 
him upon having had the foresight and good sense to 
obtain the man of the future to do the work. The bullet¬ 
headed Yorkshireman was pleased, of course, since every 
bullet-headed Yorkshireman likes to be complimented on 
his foresight and good sense by an acknowledged expert. 

“I wonder if he would paint my wife?” said Mr. 
Crosby of the Foreign Office. 

“You can ask him, my dear fellow,” said the expert. 

“He’d want a stiff figure, wouldn’t he?” said Mr. 
Crosby, who had a very practical mind. 

“It would cost you a cool thousand, I dare say,” said 
Cheriton before the host could announce that it had cost 
him five hundred. 

“Stiff, ain’t it, for an unknown man?” 

“He is going to be the man, my dear fellow. What 
do you say, Caroline ? You have seen some of his work.” 

“I agree with you, Cheriton,” said the flattered 
Caroline, who knew as much about pictures as Ponto did. 
“He has painted two of my nieces, and in my opinion 
they are excellent likenesses.” 

“Have you two nieces, Caroline?” said the Marquis. 
“That is interesting. When are we to have the privilege 
of seeing the other one?” 

“Next season—perhaps.” 

As yet there had been no formal announcement of 
Cheriton’s engagement, but the fact had leaked out. It 
is true that those who knew him best maintained an 
attitude of polite incredulity. So many times in the past 
had there been talk of entertaining at Cheriton House. 


BARNE MOOR 


307 


Yet there was a concensus of opinion that he really meant 
to settle down at last; and while none could fail to admire 
his taste, there were those who doubted his wisdom. 
Still, Miss Perry had charm and great beauty. More¬ 
over, she was a good, honest girl, a Wargrave, and the 
old woman of Hill Street could well afford to behave 
handsomely. Even if the knowing ones ‘‘could not see 
it at all,” they were obliged to own that “Cheriton might 
have done worse.” 

All the same, Miss Perry was famous and she was 
popular. Such a nature as hers was very rare. She was 
unaffectedly good to everybody, and everybody could not 
help being grateful to her for her goodness, because it 
came straight from the heart. No matter whether people 
were important or unimportant, it made no difference. 
Supreme beauty and an absolute friendliness which is 
extended to all, which keeps the same gracious smile for 
the odd man about the stables as for the wearer of the 
Garter, will go far towards the conquest of the world. 

Miss Perry had conquered her world. All agreed that 
her good luck was thoroughly deserved. Yet the creature 
was not in the least happy. In the course of centuries, 
however, so much practice had befallen those of her race 
in dissembling their unhappiness and in offering their 
heads to the block, that only four persons were able to 
suspect that a brave, smiling and bountiful exterior con¬ 
cealed a broken heart. 

Jim Lascelles was one. He knew for certain. Miss 
Burden was another. Caroline Crewkerne was no be¬ 
liever in broken hearts. For one thing she had never had 
a heart of any sort to break. But she had seen those 
great damp splotches on the correspondence with the 
creature’s father; she had noticed that her appetite was 
not what it was; and there were other symptoms that 
enabled her to put two and two together. As for the 


3°8 


ARAMINTA 


fourth person, it was Cheriton himself. He was a man 
of immense practical sagacity. The Lascelles affair was 
quite familiar to him in all its aspects. Was he not 
primarily responsible for it? And none knew better 
than did he that youth will be served. 

During Jim’s stay at Barne Moor Cheriton showed him 
much kindness. His behavior was that of a highly- 
civilized and broad-minded man of the world, who, so to 
speak, knew the whole alphabet of life, and if necessary 
could repeat it backwards. 

“You have no right to be here, my dear fellow,” was 
what he said in effect; “but since our Yorkshire friend 
has blundered, as one’s Yorkshire friends will, and you 
find yourself in the wrong galley, act as you would in 
ordinary circumstances, and, if you have the courage, 
take up the parable more or less where you left it. After 
all, you were brought up together, and I am only an 
interloper, and an old one at that.” 

It was bold and generous of my lord to adopt this 
course. But the young man had behaved so well that he 
was bound to respect him. And he had a genuine liking 
for him too. Therefore he raised no objection to their 
spending long hours upon the moors with only one an¬ 
other for company, while he gossiped and shot birds and 
passed the time indoors among people rather more mature. 

Still, it was trying Jim Lascelles somewhat highly. 
The test was a severer one than perhaps Cheriton knew. 
For Jim was confident that he had only to speak the word 
for the Goose Girl to marry him by special license at 
Barne Moor parish church. Once, indeed, they found 
themselves in it, since the Goose Girl was by way of being 
a connoisseur in churches; and they had a pleasant and in¬ 
structive conversation with the verger. 

However, “all’s well that ends well,” as Shakespeare 
says. Jim Lascelles did not obtain a special license, but 


BARNE MOOR 


309 


returned to his mother like a dutiful son and a man of 
honor. For it would have been such a fatally easy and 
natural thing to marry the Goose Girl at Barne Moor 
parish church. After all, why should she more than an¬ 
other be offered for sacrifice ? Dickie would be able to go 
to Sandhurst and Milly to boarding school; all the same, 
it was desperately hard on the Goose Girl. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST IN THE BEST 
OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS 

J IM LASCELLES returned to Laxton exactly nine 
days after he had left that friendly but uninspired 
suburb. He had worked hard during his absence in 
Yorkshire; the picture of the fair Priscilla had made ex¬ 
cellent progress, and there was a check for five hundred 
pounds in prospect on completion. Further, by the in¬ 
terest and undoubted talent for commerce of his friend 
Lord Cheriton, Mr. Crosby of the Foreign Office had been 
induced to rise to seven hundred and fifty pounds for the 
portrait of Mrs. Crosby and her children. 

As far as the things of this world are concerned, Jim 
returned to his mother in high feather. The progress he 
was making in his profession seemed out of all proportion 
to his talent. But it is a great thing to have a friend at 
Court. So much is done in that way. It is not always 
the best picture or the best play or the best oratorio that 
commands the most guineas in the market square. It is 
one thing to create a masterpiece, it is quite another to 
transmute it into coin of the realm. Jim Lascelles had 
made amazing strides in his art, beyond a doubt; all the 
same, he was a lucky fellow to have a man like Cheriton 
to go round with a bell to call the attention of the picture¬ 
buying public to the quality of his work. 

Jim was very grateful to the chief of his patrons. 
And yet he would have been less than human had he not 

hated him very sorely. After all, what is the use of 

310 


EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST 


3ii 

material prosperity if the man who confers it upon you 
robs you of the only girl in the world you feel you will 
ever be able to marry? Certainly he would now have 
the means to buy his mother a new frock or so in order to 
deprive her of a favorite excuse for not looking older. 
But life, even with professional success, was going to be 
a hollow affair. 

However, in this crisis Jim Lascelles proved himself a 
man. Of late he had been down to the depths of the 
sea and had brought back a few pearls. One of these 
was resolution. He finished the picture of Priscilla out 
of hand and drew his check; and although the season was 
November, he paid several visits to Eaton Square and did 
his best for Mrs. Crosby and her youthful family. And 
ever and anon he took his courage in his hands and spent 
an hour in further devotion to the masterpiece that was to 
make him famous. 

It was not until early in January that Jim Lascelles an¬ 
nounced to his patron that the portrait of Miss Perry was 
complete. Thereupon quite a number of people inter¬ 
ested in art found their way to The Acacias. They were 
by no means unanimous as to the intrinsic merit of the 
portrait, but all agreed that it was bound to prove one of 
the sensations of the year. 

“An extraordinarily clever fake,” said a critic of the 
fine arts privately. 

“Mr. Lascelles,” said a dealer, “I should like you to 
give me an option on all the work you produce during the 
next five years. I feel sure I could sell it.” 

“We have a new Gainsborough here,” said a third 
person, who spoke in an unofficial capacity, “and that is 
all there is to be said about it.” 

Towards the end of the month Cheriton himself ap¬ 
peared, duly armed with expert opinion. He was accom¬ 
panied by Miss Burden and his fiancee , who was looking 


3 12 


ARAMINTA 


thin and unhappy. It was a beautiful day for the time 
of year, and in the matter of his appearance the happy 
wooer was as fastidious as usual. Never had be seemed 
more faultless in dress or in mien more scrupulously 
paternal. He looked long at the masterpiece and he 
looked particularly. 

“Lascelles, my good fellow,” said he, “I am forced to 
arrive at one conclusion. If you were to paint a thou¬ 
sand pictures, this is something you will never surpass .” 

Jim asked why he thought so. 

“Because there is growth in it. You began it a raw 
youth; you have finished it, shall I say, a strong man in 
the fullness of his power. Month by month I have 
watched you and the picture grow together. It is given 
to no man to do that sort of thing twice.” 

Jim Lascelles, however, was a robust young man—at 
least it was his ideal to be so. He was apt to be on his 
guard against high-flown sentiment, yet he knew that 
Cheriton had spoken the truth. 

“You are quite right, sir,” he said simply. “That 
canvas has got all I have or ever shall have. I am older 
now than when I began it, and I hope Lm wiser.” 

“Does one ever get wiser? But at any rate you have 
found yourself. A great career lies before you.” 

“You may be right, sir,” said Jim, “or you may not be 
right, but either way it doesn’t matter.” 

My lord looked at his protege searchingly. There was 
no mistaking the note of tragedy in the young man’s 
voice. So much was painfully clear. He took a little 
time for reflection, and then he slowly drew a check out 
of his pocketbook. 

“There must be no misunderstanding, Lascelles,” said 
he, with an air that was brisk and businesslike. “There 
is every reason to believe that the picture of Miss Perry 
will prove a valuable property. But at the same time, I 


EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST 


3i3 


hold your promise that I may purchase it on my own 
terms. Is not that the case?” 

“It is, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim in a tone of indiffer¬ 
ence. 

“I hope the bargain I drove with you may not prove too 
hard,” said Cheriton with an enigmatic smile that Jim 
Lascelles was at no pains to fathom. “But if I may say 
so, in allowing me to drive it you were most injudicious. 
For everybody tells me that your picture is magnificent.” 

“I am so glad you like it,” said Jim perfunctorily. 

“It must always be pleasant to an artist to have his 
work admired. My own comment upon your work is 
this. I hope, my dear fellow, you will be able to forgive 
its extravagance.” 

As he spoke he gave the check to Jim Lascelles. The 
painter, however, paid no heed to it at first. So re¬ 
pugnant was the piece of paper to his fingers that his in¬ 
stinct was to crush it in them and fling it away. Now 
that the time had come to yield the one solace that re¬ 
mained he felt unable to give it up. 

This, however, was a weakness he must not indulge. 
Automatically his eye fell on the paper, and then he gave 
an exclamation. The check was made out in his favor 
for ten thousand pounds. 

“I don’t understand,” said Jim. “Is there not some 
mistake?” 

“You must constrain your modesty a little, that is all. 
People tell me it will be worth every penny of this sum to 
the next generation. It is pleasant sometimes to antici¬ 
pate the verdict of posterity.” 

Jim Lascelles did not know what to say or what to do. 
He was confronted by the most Quixotic proceeding he 
had ever heard of. 

“Really,” he said, “I don’t think I ought to take such a 
sum.” 


3*4 


ARAMINTA 


“A bargain is a bargain. I have your promise that I 
am to buy the picture on my own terms.” 

In the flood tide of bewilderment Jim Lascelles could 
find nothing to say. 

“Don’t forget, my friend, that there is no greater 
pleasure for any man than to be allowed to adopt the role 
of Maecenas. And don’t you know that the Red House 
at Widdiford is in the market, and that six thousand 
pounds will purchase it ?” 

Jim flinched a little. A deep flush overspread his face. 
This was sacred ground, upon which it behooved the out¬ 
side world to tread warily. 

“I hope you don’t wish to infer that the Red House at 
Widdiford means nothing to you?” 

Jim was not proof against the assault. 

“I’m not sure that it does,” he said miserably. 

“Don’t be too sure about that, my dear fellow.” 

Jim began to look decidedly fierce. In spite of the 
check for ten thousand pounds, which after all was 
little better than a mockery, he was not going to be 
baited. 

“Perhaps, sir, it would be better n f ot to pursue the 
subject.” 

Cheriton laughed outright at the young man’s solemn¬ 
ity. 

“On the contrary,” he said, “one rather feels that the 
Red House at Widdiford is a subject for discussion. 
[You may like to know that Miss Perry and I have just 
been over to look at the property before completing the 
purchase.” 

Jim, who was more bewildered than ever, allowed that 
such a fact was interesting. 

“It seems that as well as other lures the Red House at 
Widdiford has peaches in season.” 

“Of course it has,” said Jim, who was beginning to 


EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST 


315 


feel that his patron was making a rather tedious excur¬ 
sion in the realms of bad taste. 

‘Well, my dear fellow, I put it to you—what is the 
use of having peaches in season if one has not the appetite 
to eat them?” 

“What, indeed!” said Jim. 

“And again, my dear fellow—what, pray, is the use of 
giving Gunter a contract for the large size when even 
cream buns lose their charm?” 

Jim’s only reply was to continue to look miserable. 

“Let me tell you in confidence, Lascelles, that even the 
circus has begun to pall. And as for Joseph Wright of 
Derby, the question of his permanent merit is becoming 
almost a matter of indifference. Do you feel competent 
to give advice as to what ought to be done?” 

“I’m afraid, sir, I don’t,” said Jim rather feebly. 

“That is disappointing, for in the past you have shown 
such a fertility of ideas. The problem is so serious. 
Can one conceive a world in which cream buns have no 
attraction, circuses no glamour, and in which the Joseph 
Wrights of Derby are allowed to ruffle it unchallenged 
among their betters? Frankly, the feat is beyond me, 
Lascelles. And then, too, my dear fellow, the news that 
Muffin is to have a new mauve frock from London to 
wear in the spring has excited hardly any enthusiasm.” 

Jim expressed a formal surprise. 

“That is so, I assure you. And to my mind it is not 
the least sinister sign. I have conferred with the wise 
woman of Hill Street, and during my sojourn in the 
West-country also with the presiding genius of Slocum 
Magna. After some discussion of the pros and cons of 
the situation, for mon pere and ma tante do not appear 
to see eye to eye in all things, we are at last in agreement 
that steps ought to be taken to restore the savor to the 
best confectionery, and also to ensure that no upstart 


ARAMINTA 


3 l6 

shall occupy without challenge the same kind of fauteuil 
as Rembrandt and Velasquez. The result of our delib¬ 
erations is, my friend, that we have come to the conclu¬ 
sion that you are the man to help us.” 

“I,” said Jim impotently. 

“Have you any objection to undertaking such a scheme 
of philanthropy?” 

“If I could do anything to add to Miss Perry’s happi¬ 
ness,” said Jim, “I should be just about the proudest chap 
in the world.” 

“Well, it seems, my friend, that you can do so. At 
least, that is the opinion which has been reached by the 
experts who have communed over her case.” 

Jim’s heart beat painfully. 

“Tell me what I can do,” he said rather hoarsely, “for 
the best, the truest-hearted, the most absolutely genuine 
girl in the world.” 

“You can marry her.” 

“Marry her!” gasped Jim. 

“Yes, in the afternoon of April the First, at Saint 
Sepulchre’s Church.” 

“But—” said Jim. 

“The oracle of Hill Street thinks the First of June is 
preferable, because there will be more people in town, and 
the presents are likely to be more numerous. But 
privately I agree with Mrs. Lascelles and mon pere that 
April is as good a time as any other for visiting the 
Prado.” 

“But—” said Jim. 

“I forget the inn I stayed at when I was last at Madrid. 
It was ‘El’ Something, and for some obscure reason it 
had no aspirate. But one Ford is the authority for Spain, 
although to be sure a certain Borrow wrote a famous 
work upon the subject. By the way, we must not over¬ 
look one important argument in favor of June.” 


EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST 317 

“What is that, sir?” said Jim mechanically. 

“It is hardly right to expect a new mauve dress to make 
its debut on the First of April. Yet there seems no help 
for it. No ceremony could ever be complete without it.” 

“Am I to understand—?” began Jim, but he stopped 
with ridiculous abruptness right in the middle of his ques¬ 
tion. 

“By the way, my dear fellow, I have taken the liberty 
of suggesting to your accomplished mother that it might 
help her literary career if she moved a little nearer to the 
center. A flat in Knightsbridge is sometimes a judicious 
investment. As you may know, publishers as a race are 
highly susceptible, and an address in Knightsbridge might 
impress them favorably.” 

“Do you think so, sir?” said Jim, who did not know in 
the least what he was saying. 

But there is really no reason to go on with this history. 
In spite of scruples, which were due as much to pride as to 
generosity, Jim Lascelles married the Goose Girl at Saint 
Sepulchre’s Church on the First of April. On that 
significant occasion the presiding genius of Hill Street 
displayed an amount of Christian feeling which, in the 
opinion of a contemporary, was without parallel in his 
experience. 

The entire family of Slocum Magna, including Milly, 
whose pigtail was the color of a yellow chrysanthemum, 
and was tied with a ribbon, came up to London and stayed 
a full week at Morley’s Hotel. Among other things, they 
all went one day to see the Exhibition, and found there 
wasn’t one. Papa dined twice in Hill Street and met 
dukes and people; and he brought back the report that 
Aunt Caroline was less worldly than he had feared. He 
gave his daughter away on the glorious First, and Muffin 
wore her new mauve dress on that occasion. In the 
opinion of all qualified persons it was quite as successful 


ARAMINTA 


3 l8 

as the famous original. Polly, who took after her papa, 
and had more intellect than all the rest of the family to¬ 
gether, Dickie and Doggo included, looked charmingly 
proper in a “costume” more reticent than Muffin’s. Her 
young man assisted the Dean of Dunstable, the uncle of 
the bride, in performing the ceremony. 

Jim Lascelles and the Goose Girl spent a month in the 
land of Cervantes and Velasquez. They are living now 
at the Red House at Widdiford. Jim is quite likely to 
be elected to an Associateship of the Royal Academy be¬ 
fore long. At least, he is getting very good prices for his 
work, and his “Miss Perry” has been esteemed a rare 
triumph for British art. His “Naiad” also, purchased 
by the Chantrey Bequest, has been generally and justly 
admired. 

The accomplished mother of the rising artist took the 
disinterested advice of a well-wisher, and a fortnight 
after her son’s brilliant marriage—the Morning Mirror 
described it as such—she left “P.P.C.” cards on the Miss 
Champneys at The Chestnuts, and moved “nearer to the 
center.” It may have been coincidence, or it may have 
been cause and effect, but within a fortnight of her in¬ 
stallation at No. 5 Beauclerk Mansions, W., The Fair 
Immortal was accepted by an eminent firm of publishers, 
and made its appearance in the course of the summer. It 
won such glowing approval from the Press and the 
public, that it can now be purchased for sixpence of any 
self-respecting bookseller in the United Kingdom; its 
fortunate authoress has signed contracts for the next 
three years, and has been elected a member of several of 
the best ladies’ clubs in the metropolis. 

Muffin’s season at Hill Street was an even greater 
triumph than her sister’s—but thereby hangs a tale for a 
wet afternoon. Aunt Caroline, in spite of her advanced 
years, is worth “a good many dead ones” at present, and 


EVERYTHING FOR THE BEST 


3i9 


in the opinion of her oldest friend her manner has more 
amenity. Perhaps it is that the influence of youth has 
been a good one in her life. It is right to think so, since 
there is no reason to believe that she has altered her 
opinion of the clergy. 

Polly has not yet married her parson, but she is certain 
to do so. Serious people, however, “make haste slowly,” 
as the wise Italians say. Charley has found his way to 
Sandhurst all right, and feels himself to be a field marshal 
already. Dickie also is on the high road to preferment— 
in itself no mean achievement, considering the widespread 
depression in things ecclesiastical. However, in justice 
to Dickie, it should be stated that he was always quietly 
confident that something would come of his left-hand 
bowling. It is only right to expect it if you break both 
ways. 

Milly has been two terms already at her Brighton 
boarding school. In the opinion of her mistresses she is 
the best inside right at hockey on the South Coast. If 
she is not chosen to play against Wales in the forthcoming 
international match they will be much disappointed. 

Entertaining at Cheriton House is still to seek. The 
thing threatens to become a national scandal. Com¬ 
parisons highly unfavorable to the present peer are being 
constantly drawn by convinced free-fooders and the 
praisers of past times. The noble earl, however, is fully 
occupied at present in steering a course between the Scylla 
of Hill Street on the one hand and the Charybdis of No. 
5 Beauclerk Mansions on the other. The presiding 
genius of the former locality defines a coxcomb as a 
person who never means anything. Still, it doesn’t do to 
be too sure in these days. 

As an instance of the need for honest doubt, George 
Betterton did not lead the fair Priscilla to the altar after 
all. The world understands that a religious difference 


3 2 ° 


ARAMINTA 


was the rock which sundered them. Whether George had 
too little religion and Priscilla had too much is one of 
those problems that has never been elucidated clearly. 
But beyond all shadow of controversy they were never 
brought to the question. Priscilla made quite a good 
marriage all the same. As for George—well, what really 
happened to him is a story for one of those typical 
English afternoons in which it is hardly fit for a dog to be 
out. People say that George is much improved lately. 

It is open to doubt whether Jim Lascelles will make as 
great a painter as Velasquez. Considering his youth, his 
attainments and his temper, there were those who pre¬ 
dicted a high destiny for the young fellow, but that was 
before “the wicket rolled out so plumb.” Authorities 
upon the subject, however, are not slow to aver that it is 
better to marry the girl you want to, and to live at the 
Red House at Widdiford, and be a county magistrate, 
and to have a couple of expensive sons in the Services, 
and to have your girls clothed by Reville and presented at 
Court, than to appear on a pedestal by public subscription 
in front of the National Gallery three centuries after you 
have ceased to take an interest in the verdict of posterity. 

Quot homines s tot sententice. These wiseacres may be 
right or they may not be right. It is only the Caroline 
Crewkernes who are infallible. 

(i) 


THE END 










library of congress 



000B30fl7H0fe> 
































































































